MEADOW-GRASS 

ALICE  BROWN 


LIBRARY 

<*  CaU<orni 
IRVINE 


MEADOW-GRASS 


TALES   OF 

NEW   ENGLAND  LIFE   BY 
ALICE    BROWN 


BOSTON 

COPELAND   AND    DAY 
MDCCCXCV 


\\ 


FIRST  THOUSAND  JULY   1895 
SECOND  THOUSAND  SEPTEMBER   I  895 

ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  THE  ACT  OF 
CONGRESS  IN  THE  YEAR  1895  BY 
COPELAND  AND  DAY,  IN  THE  OFFICE 
OF  THE  LIBRARIAN  OF  CONGRESS 
AT  WASHINGTON. 


TO   M.    G.   R. 
LOVER   OF   WOODS   AND    FIELD   AND   SEA. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

NUMBER  FIVE  i 

FARMER  ELI'S  VACATION  18 

AFTER  ALL  30 

TOLD  IN  THE  POORHOUSE  58 

HEMAN'S  MA  78 

HEARTSEASE  100 

Mis'  WADLEIGH'S  GUEST  116 

A  RIGHTEOUS  BARGAIN  139 

JOINT  OWNERS  IN  SPAIN  166 

AT  SUDLEIGH  FAIR  191 

BANKRUPT  229 

NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON  263 

STROLLERS  IN  TIVERTON  278 


NUMBER   FIVE. 

WE  who  are  Tiverton  born,  though  false 
ambition  may  have  ridden  us  to  market, 
or  the  world's  voice  incited  us  to  kindred  clam 
oring,  have  a  way  of  shutting  our  eyes,  now  and 
then,  to  present  changes,  and  seeing  things  as 
they  were  once,  as  they  are  still,  in  a  certain 
sleepy  yet  altogether  individual  corner  of  coun 
try  life.  And  especially  do  we  delight  in  one 
bit  of  fine  mental  tracery,  etched  carelessly,  yet 
for  all  time,  so  far  as  our  own  short  span  is  con 
cerned,  by  the  unerring  stylus  of  youth  :  the 
outline  of  a  little  red  schoolhouse,  distinguished 
from  the  other  similar  structures  within  Tiver 
ton  bounds  by  "  District  No.  V.,"  painted  on  a 
shingle,  in  primitive  black  letters,  and  nailed 
aloft  over  the  door.  Up  to  the  very  hollow 
which  made  its  playground  and  weedy  garden, 
the  road  was  elm-bordered  and  lined  with  fair 
meadows,  skirted  in  the  background  by  shadowy 
pines,  so  soft  they  did  not  even  wave  ;  they  only 
seemed  to  breathe.  The  treasures  of  the  road  ! 
On  either  side,  the  way  was  plumed  and  paved 
with  beauties  so  rare  that  now,  disheartened 
dwellers  in  city  streets,  we  covetously  con  over 


2  MEADOW-GRASS. 

in  memory  that  roaming  walk  to  school  and 
home  again.  We  know  it  now  for  what  it  was, 
a  daily  progress  of  delight.  We  see  again  the 
old  watering-trough,  decayed  into  the  mellow 
loveliness  of  gray  lichen  and  greenest  moss. 
Here  beside  the  ditch  whence  the  water  flowed, 
grew  the  pale  forget-me-not  and  sticky,  star- 
blossomed  cleavers.  A  step  farther,  beyond 
the  nook  where  the  spring  bubbled  first,  were 
the  riches  of  the  common  roadway ;  and  over 
the  gray,  lichen-bearded  fence,  the  growth  of 
stubbly  upland  pasture.  Everywhere,  in  road 
and  pasture  too,  thronged  milkweed,  odorous 
haunt  of  the  bee  and  those  frailest  butterflies  of 
the  year,  born  of  one  family  with  drifting  blos 
soms  ;  and  straightly  tall,  the  solitary  mullein, 
dust-covered  but  crowned  with  a  gold  softer 
and  more  to  be  desired  than  the  pride  of  kings. 
Perhaps  the  carriage  folk  from  the  outer  world, 
who  sometimes  penetrate  Tiverton's  leafy  quiet, 
may  wonder  at  the  queer  little  enclosures  of 
sticks  and  pebbles  on  many  a  bare,  tree-shaded 
slope  along  the  road.  "  Left  there  from  some 
game  !  "  they  say  to  one  another,  and  drive  on, 
satisfied.  But  these  are  no  mere  discarded  play 
things,  dear  ignorant  travellers  !  They  are  tokens 
of  the  mimic  earnest  with  which  child-life  is 
ever  seeking  to  sober  itself,  and  rushing  unsum- 
moned  into  the  workaday  fields  of  an  aimlessly 
frantic  world.  They  are  houses,  and  the  stone 


NUMBER  FIVE.  3 

boundaries  are  walls.  This  tree  stump  is  an 
armchair,  this  board  a  velvet  sofa.  Not  more 
truly  is  "  this  thorn-bush,  my  thorn-bush ;  and 
this  dog,  my  dog." 

Across  the  road,  at  easy  running  distance 
from  the  schoolhouse  at  noontime  or  recess, 
crawled  the  little  river,  with  its  inevitable  "  hole," 
which  each  mother's  son  was  warned  to  avoid  in 
swimming,  lest  he  be  seized  with  cramp  there 
where  the  pool  was  bottomless.  What  eerie 
wonders  lurked  within  the  mirror  of  those  shallow 
brown  waters  !  Long  black  hairs  cleaved  and 
clung  in  their  limpid  flowing.  To  this  day,  I 
know  not  whether  they  were  horse-hairs,  far 
from  home,  or  swaying  willow  roots ;  the  boys 
said  they  were  "  truly  "  hairs  of  the  kind  des 
tined  to  become  snakes  in  their  last  estate ;  and 
the  girls,  listening,  shivered  with  all  Mother 
Eve's  premonitory  thrill  along  the  backbone. 
Wish-bugs,  too,  were  here,  skimming  and  dart 
ing.  The  peculiarity  of  a  wish-bug  is  that  he 
will  bestow  upon  you  your  heart's  desire,  if  only 
you  hold  him  in  the  hand  and  wish.  But  the 
impossible  premise  defeats  the  conclusion.  You 
never  do  hold  him  long  enough,  simply  because 
you  can't  catch  him  in  the  first  place.  Yet  the 
fascinating  possibility  is  like  a  taste  for  drink, 
or  the  glamour  of  cards.  Does  the  committee- 
man  drive  past  to  Sudleigh  market,  suggesting 
the  prospect  of  a  leisurely  return  that  afternoon, 


4  MEADOW-GRASS. 

and  consequent  dropping  in  to  hear  the  geog 
raphy  class?  Then  do  the  laziest  and  most 
optimistic  boys  betake  them  hastily  from  their 
dinner-pails  to  the  river,  and  spend  their  pre 
cious  nooning  in  quest  of  the  potent  bug,  through 
whose  spell  the  unwelcome  visit  may  be  averted. 
The  time  so  squandered  in  riotous  gaming  might 
have  fixed  the  afternoon's  "  North  Poles  and 
Equators"  triumphantly  in  mind,  to  the  ever 
lasting  defiance  of  all  alien  questioning ;  but  no  ! 
for  human  delight  lies  ever  in  the  unattainable. 
The  committee-man  comes  like  Nemesis,  ceguo 
pede,  the  lesson  is  unlearned,  and  the  stern- 
fibred  little  teacher  orders  out  the  rack  known 
as  staying  after  school.  But  what  durance  be 
yond  hours  in  the  indescribably  desolate  school 
room  ever  taught  mortal  boy  to  shun  the 
delusive  insect  created  for  his  special  undoing? 
So  long  as  the  heart  has  woes  of  its  own  breed 
ing,  so  long  also  will  it  dodge  the  discipline  of 
labor,  and  grasp  at  the  flicker  of  an  easy 
success. 

On  either  side  the  little  bridge  (over  which 
horses  pounded  with  an  ominous  thunder  and  a 
rain  of  dust  on  the  head  of  him  who  lingered 
beneath  the  sleepers,  in  a  fearsome  joy),  the 
meadows  were  pranked  with  purple  iris  and 
whispering  rushes,  mingling  each  its  sweetness 
with  the  good,  rank  smell  of  mud  below.  Here 
were  the  treasures  of  the  water-course,  close 


NUMBER   FIVE.  5 

hidden,  or  blowing  in  the  light  of  day.  The 
pale,  golden-hearted  arrow-head  neighbored  the 
homespun  pickerel-weed,  and — oh,  mysterious 
glory  from  an  oozy  bed  !  —  luscious,  sun-golden 
cow-lilies  rose  sturdily  triumphant,  dripping  with 
color,  glowing  in  sheen.  The  button-bush  hung 
out  her  balls,  and  white  alder  painted  the  air 
with  faint  perfume  ;  willow-herb  built  her  bow 
ery  arches,  and  the  flags  were  ever  glancing  like 
swords  of  roistering  knights.  These  flags,  be  it 
known  to  such  as  have  grown  up  in  grievous 
ignorance  of  the  lore  inseparable  from  "  dees- 
trick  school,"  hold  the  most  practical  signifi 
cance  in  the  mind  of  boy  and  girl ;  for  they 
bring  forth  (I  know  we  thought  for  our  delight 
alone  !)  a  delicacy  known  as  flag-buds,  ever 
lastingly  dear  to  the  childish  palate.  These 
were  devoured  by  the  wholesale  in  their  season, 
and  little  mouths  grew  oozy-green  as  those  of 
happy  beasties  in  June,  from  much  champing 
and  chewing.  Did  we  lose  our  appetite  for  the 
delectable  dinner-pail  through  such  literal  going 
to  pasture?  I  think  not.  Tastes  were  elastic, 
in  those  days ;  and  Nature,  so  bullied,  durst 
seldom  revolt. 

On  one  side,  the  nearest  neighbor  to  the 
school  lived  at  least  a  mile  away ;  but  on  the 
other,  the  first  house  of  all  owned  treasures 
manifold  for  the  little  squad  who,  though  the 
day  were  wet  or  dry,  fair  or  frowning,  trotted 


6  MEADOW-GRASS. 

thither  at  noon.  Here  were  trees  under  which 
lay,  in  happy  season,  over-ripe  Bartlett  pears ; 
here,  too,  was  one  mulberry-tree,  whereof  the 
suggestion  was  strange  and  wonderful,  and  the 
fruit  less  appealing  to  taste  than  to  a  mystical 
fancy.  But  outside  the  bank  wall  grew  the 
balm-of-Gileads,  in  a  stately,  benevolent  row, 
—  trees  of  healing,  of  fragrance  and  romantic 
charm.  No  child  ever  sought  the  old  home  to 
beg  pears  and  mulberries,  or  to  fill  the  school- 
house  pail  at  its  dark-bosomed  well,  without 
bearing  away  a  few  of  the  leaves  in  a  covetous 
grasp.  Sweet  treasure-trove  these,  to  be  pressed 
to  fresh  young  faces,  and  held  and  patted  in 
hot  little  palms,  till  they  grew  flabby  but  ever 
more  fragrant,  still  diffusing  over  the  dusty 
schoolroom  that  warm  odor,  whispering  to  those 
who  read  no  corner  but  their  own  New  Eng 
land,  of  the  myrrh  and  balsams  of  the  East. 

We  knew  everything  in  those  days,  we  aimless 
knights- errant  with  dinner-pail  and  slate ;  the 
dry,  frosty  hollow  where  gentians  bloom  when 
the  pride  of  the  field  is  over,  the  woody  slopes 
of  the  hepatica's  awakening,  under  coverlet  of 
withered  leaves,  and  the  sunny  banks  where  vio 
lets  love  to  live  with  their  good  gossip,  the 
trembling  anemone.  At  noon,  we  roved  abroad 
into  solitudes  so  deep  that  even  our  unsuspect 
ing  hearts  sometimes  quaked  with  fear  of  dark 
and  lonesomeness ;  and  then  we  came  trooping 


NUMBER   FIVE.  7 

back  at  the  sound  of  the  bell,  untamed,  happy 
little  savages,  ready  to  settle,  with  a  long  breath, 
to  the  afternoon's  drowsy  routine.  Arrant  non 
sense  that  !  the  boundary  of  British  America 
and  the  conjugation  of  the  verb  to  be .'  Who 
that  might  loll  away  the  hours  upon  a  bank  in 
silken  ease,  needed  aught  even  of  computation 
or  the  tongues?  He  alone  had  inherited  the 
earth. 

All  the  little  figures  flitting  through  those 
tranquil  early  dramas  are  so  sharply  drawn,  so 
brightly  colored  still !  I  meet  Melissa  Crane 
sometimes  nowadays,  a  prosperous  matron  with 
space  enough  on  her  broad  back  for  the  very 
largest  plaid  ever  woven ;  but  her  present  iden 
tity  is  hazy  and  unreal.  I  see  instead,  with  a 
sudden  throb  of  memory,  the  little  Melissa,  who, 
one  recess,  accepted  a  sugared  doughnut  from 
me,  and  said,  with  a  quaint  imitation  of  old 
folks'  manner,  — 

"  I  think  your  mother  will  be  a  real  good 
cook,  if  she  lives  !  " 

I  hear  of  Susie  Marden,  who  went  out  West, 
married,  and  grew  up  with  the  country  in  great 
magnificence  ;  but  to  me  she  is  and  ever  will 
be  the  little  girl  who  made  seventy  pies,  one 
Thanksgiving  time,  thereby  earning  the  some 
what  stinted  admiration  of  those  among  us  who 
could  not  cook.  Many  a  great  deed,  tacitly 
promised  in  that  springtime,  never  came  to 


8  MEADOW-GRASS. 

pass  ;  many  a  brilliant  career  ingloriously  ended. 
There  was  Sam  Marshall.  He  could  do  sums 
to  the  admiration  of  class  and  teacher,  and, 
Cuvier-like,  evolve  an  entire  flock  from  Col- 
burn's  two  geese  and  a  half.  His  memory  was 
prodigious.  He  could  name  the  Presidents, 
bound  the  States  and  Territories,  and  rattle  off 
the  list  of  prepositions  so  fast  that  you  could 
almost  see  the  spark-shower  from  his  rushing 
wheels  of  thought.  It  was  an  understood  thing 
among  us,  when  Sam  was  in  his  teens,  that  he 
should  at  least  enter  the  Senate ;  perhaps  he 
would  even  be  President,  and  scatter  offices,  like 
halfpence,  among  his  scampering  townsmen.  But 
to-day  he  patiently  does  his  haying  —  by  hand  ! 
and  "goes  sleddin'  "  in  the  winter.  The  Senate 
is  as  far  from  him  as  the  Polar  Star,  and  I 
question  whether  he  could  even  bear  the  crucial 
test  of  two  geese  and  a  half.  Yet  I  still  look 
upon  him  with  a  thrill  of  awe,  as  the  man  se 
lected  by  the  popular  vote  to  represent  us  in 
fame's  Valhalla,  and  mysteriously  defeated  by 
some  unexpected  move  of  the  "unseen  hand 
at  a  game." 

There  were  a  couple  of  boys  such  good  com 
rades  as  never  to  be  happy  save  when  together. 
They  cared  only  for  the  games  made  for  two  ; 
all  their  goods  were  tacitly  held  in  common, 
and  a  tradition  still  lives  that  David,  when  a 
new  teacher  asked  his  exact  age,  claimed  his 


NUMBER    FIVE.  9 

comrade's  birthday,  and  then  wondered  why 
everybody  laughed.  They  had  a  way  of  wan 
dering  off  together  to  the  woods,  on  Saturday 
mornings,  when  the  routine  of  chores  could  be 
hurried  through,  and  always  they  bore  with  them 
a  store  of  eggs,  apples,  or  sweet  corn,  to  be 
cooked  in  happy  seclusion.  All  this  raw  mate 
rial  was  stolen  from  the  respective  haylofts  and 
gardens  at  home,  though,  as  the  fathers  owned, 
with  an  appreciative  grin,  the  boys  might  have 
taken  it  openly  for  the  asking.  That,  however, 
would  so  have  alloyed  the  charm  of  gypsying 
that  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment ; 
and  they  crept  about  on  their  foraging  expedi 
tions  with  all  the  caution  of  a  hostile  tribe. 
Blessed  fathers  and  mothers  to  wink  at  the  esca 
pade,  and  happy  boys,  wise  chiefly  in  their 
longing  to  be  free  !  We  had  a  theory  that 
Jonathan  and  David  would  go  into  business 
together.  Perhaps  we  thought  of  them  in  the 
same  country  store,  their  chairs  tilted  on  either 
side  of  the  air-tight  stove,  telling  stories,  in  the 
intervals  of  custom,  as  they  apparently  did  in 
their  earlier  estate.  For,  shy  as  they  were  in 
general  company,  they  chatted  together  with  an 
intense  earnestness  all  day  long  ;  and  it  was  one 
of  the  stock  questions  in  our  neighborhood, 
when  the  social  light  burned  low,  — 

"  What  under  the   sun  do  you  s'pose  Dave 
and  Jont  find  to  talk  about?  " 


io  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Alas  !  again  the  world  had  builded  foolishly ; 
for  with  early  manhood,  they  fell  in  love  with 
the  same  round-cheeked  school-teacher.  Jona 
than  married  her,  after  what  wrench  of  feeling 
I  know  not;  and  the  other  fled  to  the  town, 
whence  he  never  returned  save  for  the  briefest 
visit  at  Thanksgiving  or  Christmas  time.  The 
stay-at-home  lad  is  a  warm  farmer,  and  the 
little  school-teacher  a  mother  whose  unlined  face 
shows  the  record  of  a  placid  life  ;  but  David 
cannot  know  even  this,  save  by  hearsay,  for  he 
never  sees  them.  He  is  a  moneyed  man,  and 
not  a  year  ago,  gave  the  town  a  new  library.  But 
is  he  happy?  Or  does  the  old  wound  still  show 
a  ragged  edge?  For  that  may  be,  they  tell  us, 
even  "when  you  come  to  forty  year." 

Then,  clad  in  brighter  vestments  of  memory, 
there  was  the  lad  who  earned  unto  himself  much 
renown,  even  among  his  disapproving  relatives, 
by  running  away  from  home,  in  quest  of  gold 
and  glory.  True,  he  was  brought  back  at  the 
end  of  three  days,  footsore  and  muddy,  and  with 
noble  appetite  for  the  griddle-cakes  his  mother 
cooked  him  in  lieu  of  the  traditional  veal,  —  but 
all  undaunted.  He  never  tried  it  again,  yet 
people  say  he  has  thrown  away  all  his  chances 
of  a  thrifty  living  by  perpetual  wandering  in  the 
woods  with  gun  and  fishing-rod,  and  that  he  is 
cursed  with  a  deplorable  indifference  to  the 
state  of  his  fences  and  potato-patch.  No  one 


NUMBER   FIVE.  n 

could  call  him  an  admirable  citizen,  but  I  am 
not  sure  that  he  has  chosen  the  worser  part ;  for 
who  is  so  jovial  and  sympathetic  on  a  winter 
evening,  when  the  apples  are  passed,  and  even 
the  shining  cat  purrs  content  before  the  blaze, 
or  in  the  wood  solitudes,  familiar  to  him  as  his 
own  house  door? 

"  Pa'tridges'  nests?"  he  said,  one  spring, 
with  a  cock  of  his  eye  calculated  to  show  at 
once  a  humorous  recognition  of  his  genius  and 
his  delinquencies.  "  Sartain  !  I  wish  I  was  as 
sure  where  I  keep  my  scythe  sned  !  " 

He  has  learned  all  the  lore  of  the  woods,  the 
ways  of  "  wild  critters,"  and  the  most  effica 
cious  means  both  to  woo  and  kill  them.  Prim 
spinsters  eye  him  acridly,  as  a  man  given  over 
to  "  shif'less"  ways,  and  wives  set  him  up,  like 
a  lurid  guidepost,  before  husbands  prone  to  lapse 
from  domestic  thrift ;  but  the  dogs  smile  at 
him,  and  children,  for  whom  he  is  ever  ready 
to  make  kite  or  dory,  though  all  his  hay  should 
mildew,  or  to  string  thimbleberries  on  a  grass 
spear  while  supper  cools  within,  tumble  merrily 
at  his  heels.  Such  as  he  should  never  assume 
domestic  relations,  to  be  fettered  with  require 
ments  of  time  and  place.  Let  them  rather 
claim  maintenance  from  a  grateful  public,  and 
live,  like  troubadours  of  old,  ministrant  to  the 
general  joy. 

Not    all    the    memories    of   that    early   day 


12  MEADOW-GRASS. 

are  quite  unspotted  by  remorse.  Although  we 
wore  the  mask  of  jocund  faces  and  straightfor 
ward  glance,  we  little  people  repeatedly  pro 
claimed  ourselves  the  victims  of  Adam's  fall. 
Even  then  we  needed  to  pray  for  deliverance 
from  those  passions  which  have  since  pursued 
us.  There  was  the  little  bound  girl  who  lived 
with  a  "  selec'man's  "  wife,  a  woman  with  chil 
dren  of  her  own,  but  a  hard  taskmistress  to  the 
stranger  within  her  gates.  Poor  little  Polly  ! 
her  clothes,  made  over  from  those  of  her  mis 
tress,  were  of  dark,  rough  flannel,  often  in 
uncouth  plaids  and  appalling  stripes.  Her  pet 
ticoats  were  dyed  of  a  sickly  hue  known  as 
cudbar,  and  she  wore  heavy  woollen  stockings 
of  the  same  shade.  Polly  got  up  early,  to  milk 
and  drive  the  cows ;  she  set  the  table,  washed 
milkpans,  and  ran  hither  and  thither  on  her 
sturdy  cudbar  legs,  always  willing,  sometimes 
singing,  and  often  with  a  mute,  questioning  look 
on  her  little  freckled  face,  as  if  she  had  already 
begun  to  wonder  why  it  has  pleased  God  to  set 
so  many  boundary  lines  over  which  the  feeble 
may  not  pass.  The  selec'man's  son — a  heavy- 
faced,  greedy  boy  —  was  a  bully,  and  Polly  be 
came  his  butt ;  she  did  his  tasks,  hectored  by  him 
in  private,  and  with  a  child's  strange  reticence, 
she  never  told  even  us  how  unbearable  he  made 
her  life.  We  could  see  it,  however  ;  for  not  much 
remains  hidden  in  that  communistic  atmosphere 


NUMBER   FIVE.  13 

of  the  country  neighborhood.  But  sometimes 
Polly  revolted  ;  her  temper  blazed  up,  a  harm 
less  flash  in  the  pan,  and  then,  it  was  said,  Mis' 
Jeremiah  took  her  to  the  shed-chamber  and 
trounced  her  soundly.  I  myself  have  seen  her 
sitting  at  the  little  low  window,  when  I  trotted 
by,  in  the  pride  of  young  life,  to  "  borry  some 
emptin's,"  or  the  recipe  for  a  new  cake.  Often 
she  waved  a  timid  hand  to  me  ;  and  I  am  glad 
to  remember  a  certain  sunny  morning,  illumi 
nated  now  because  I  tossed  her  up  a  bright 
hollyhock  in  return.  It  was  little  to  give  out  of 
a  full  and  happy  day ;  but  Polly  had  nothing. 
Once  she  came  near  great  good  fortune  —  and 
missed  it !  For  a  lady,  who  boarded  a  few  weeks 
in  the  neighborhood,  took  a  fancy  to  Polly,  and 
was  stirred  to  outspoken  wrath  by  our  tales  of 
the  severity  of  her  life.  She  gave  her  a  pretty 
pink  cambric  dress,  and  Polly  wore  it  on  "  last 
day,"  at  the  end  of  the  summer  term.  She 
was  evidently  absorbed  in  love  of  it,  and  sat 
smoothing  its  shiny  surface  with  her  little 
cracked  hand,  so  oblivious  to  the  requirements 
of  the  occasion  that  she  only  looked  up  dazed 
when  the  teacher  told  her  to  describe  the  Ama 
zon  River,  and  unregretfully  let  the  question 
pass.  The  lady  meant  to  take  Polly  away  with 
her,  but  she  fell  sick  with  erysipelas  in  the  face, 
and  was  hurried  off  to  the  city  to  be  nursed, 
"a  sight  to  behold,"  as  everybody  said.  And 


i4  MEADOW-GRASS. 

whether  she  died,  or  whether  she  got  well  and 
forgot  Polly,  none  of  us  ever  heard.  We  only 
knew  she  did  not  return,  bringing  the  odor  of 
violets  and  the  rustle  of  starched  petticoats  into 
our  placid  lives. 

But  all  these  thoughts  of  Polly  would  be  less 
wearing,  when  they  come  in  the  night-time 
knocking  at  the  heart,  if  I  could  only  remember 
her  as  glowing  under  the  sympathy  and  loving- 
kindness  of  her  little  mates.  Alas  !  it  was  not 
so.  We  were  senseless  little  brutes,  who,  never 
having  learned  the  taste  of  misery  ourselves,  had 
no  pity  for  the  misfortunes  of  others.  She  was, 
indeed,  ill-treated ;  but  what  were  we,  to  trans 
late  the  phrase?  She  was  an  under  dog,  and 
we  had  no  mercy  on  her.  We  "  plagued  "  her, 
God  forgive  us  !  And  what  the  word  means, 
in  its  full  horror,  only  a  child  can  compass.  We 
laughed  at  her  cudbar  petticoats,  her  little 
"  chopped  hands  ; "  and  when  she  stumbled  over 
the  arithmetic  lesson,  because  she  had  been  up 
at  four  o'clock  every  morning  since  the  first 
bluebirds  came,  we  laughed  at  that.  Life  in 
general  seems  to  have  treated  Polly  in  somewhat 
the  same  way.  I  hear  that  she  did  not  marry 
well,  and  that  her  children  had  begun  to  "  turn 
out  bad,"  when  she  died,  prematurely  bent  and 
old,  not  many  weeks  ago.  But  when  I  think  of 
what  we  might  have  given  and  what  we  did 
withhold,  when  I  realize  that  one  drop  of  water 


NUMBER   FIVE.  15 

from  each  of  us  would  have  filled  her  little 
cup  to  overflowing,  there  is  one  compensating 
thought,  and  I  murmur,  conscience-smitten, 
"  I  'm  glad  she  had  the  pink  dress  !  " 

And  now  the  little  school  is  ever  present  with 
us,  ours  still  for  counsel  or  reproof.  Its  long- 
closed  sessions  are  open,  by  day  and  night ;  and 
I  suppose,  as  time  goes  on,  and  we  drop  into 
the  estate  of  those  who  sit  by  the  fireside,  obli 
vious  to  present  scenes,  yet  acutely  awake  to 
such  as 

"  Flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude," 

it  will  grow  more  and  more  lifelike  and  more 
near.  Beside  it,  live  all  the  joys  of  memory 
and  many  a  long-past  pain.  For  we  who  have 
walked  in  country  ways,  walk  in  them  always, 
and  with  no  divided  love,  even  though  brick 
pavements  have  been  our  chosen  road  this 
many  a  year.  We  follow  the  market,  we  buy 
and  sell,  and  even  run  across  the  sea,  to  fit  us 
with  new  armor  for  the  soul,  to  guard  it  from 
the  hurts  of  years  ;  but  ever  do  we  keep  the 
calendar  of  this  one  spring  of  life.  Some  un 
heard  angelus  summons  us  to  days  of  feast  and 
mourning ;  it  may  be  the  joy  of  the  fresh- 
springing  willow,  or  the  nameless  pain  respon 
sive  to  the  croaking  of  frogs,  in  the  month  when 
twilights  are  misty,  and  waves  of  world-sorrow 
flood  in  upon  the  heart,  we  know  not  why.  All 


1 6  MEADOW-GRASS. 

those  trembling  half- thoughts  of  the  sleep  of 
the  year  and  its  awakening,  —  we  have  not  es 
caped  them  by  leaving  the  routine  that  brought 
them  forth.  We  know  when  the  first  violets  are 
blowing  in  the  woods,  and  we  paint  for  our 
selves  the  tasselling  of  the  alder  and  the  red  of 
maple-buds.  We  taste  still  the  sting  of  check- 
erberry  and  woodsy  flavor  of  the  fragrant  birch. 
When  fields  of  corn  are  shimmering  in  the  sun, 
we  know  exactly  how  it  would  seem  to  run 
through  those  dusty  aisles,  swept  by  that  silken 
drapery,  and  counselled  in  whispers  from  the 
plumy  tops  so  far  above  our  heads.  The 
ground-sparrow's  nest  is  not  strange  to  us  ;  no, 
nor  the  partridge's  hidden  treasure  within  the 
wood.  We  can  make  pudding-bags  of  live-for 
ever,  dolls'  bonnets,  "  trimmed  up  to  the  nines," 
out  of  the  velvet  mullein  leaf,  and  from  the  ox- 
eyed  daisies,  round,  cap-begirt  faces,  smiling  as 
the  sun.  All  the  homely  secrets  of  rural  life 
are  ours:  the  taste  of  pie,  cinnamon- flavored, 
from  the  dinner-pails  at  noon ;  the  smell  of 
"  pears  a-b'ilin',1'  at  that  happiest  hour  when, 
in  the  early  dusk,  we  tumble  into  the  kitchen, 
to  find  the  table  set  and  the  stove  redolent  of 
warmth  and  savor.  "  What  you  got  for  sup 
per?"  we  cry,  —  question  to  be  paralleled  in 
the  summer  days  by  "  What  'd  you  have  for 
dinner?"  as,  famished  little  bears,  we  rush  to 
the  dairy-wheel,  to  feed  ravenously  on  the 


NUMBER   FIVE.  17 

cold,    delicious   fragments    of  the   meal   eaten 
without  us. 

If  time  ever  stood  still,  if  we  were  condemned 
to  the  blank  solitude  of  hospital  nights  or  be 
calmed,  mid-ocean  days,  and  had  hours  for 
fruitless  dreaming,  I  wonder  what  viands  we 
should  choose,  in  setting  forth  a  banquet  from 
that  ambrosial  past  !  Foods  unknown  to  poetry 
and  song  :  "  cold  b'iled  dish,"  pan-dowdy,  or 
rye  drop-cakes  dripping  with  butter  !  For  these 
do  we  taste,  in  moments  of  retrospect ;  and  per 
haps  we  dwell  the  more  on  their  homely  savor 
because  we  dare  not  think  what  hands  prepared 
them  for  our  use,  or,  when  the  board  was  set, 
what  faces  smiled.  We  are  too  wise,  with  the 
cunning  prudence  of  the  years,  to  penetrate 
over-far  beyond  the  rosy  boundary  of  youth, 
lest  we  find  also  that  bitter  pool  which  is  not 
Lethe,  but  the  waters  of  a  vain  regret. 


FARMER   ELI'S   VACATION. 

«  TT  don't  seem  as  if  we  'd  really  got  round  to 
•^  it,  does  it,  father?"  asked  Mrs.  Pike. 
The  west  was  paling,  and  the  August  insects 
stirred  the  air  with  their  crooning  chirp.  Eli 
and  his  wife  sat  together  on  the  washing-bench 
outside  the  back  door,  waiting  for  the  milk  to 
cool  before  it  should  be  strained.  She  was  a 
large,  comfortable  woman,  with  an  unlined  face, 
and  smooth,  fine  auburn  hair;  he  was  spare 
and  somewhat  bent,  with  curly  iron- gray  locks, 
growing  thin,  and  crow's-feet  about  his  deep-set 
gray  eyes.  He  had  been  smoking  the  pipe  of 
twilight  contentment,  but  now  he  took  it  out 
and  laid  it  on  the  bench  beside  him,  uncrossing 
his  legs  and  straightening  himself,  with  the  air  of 
a  man  to  whom  it  falls,  after  long  pondering,  to 
take  some  decisive  step. 

"  No ;  it  don't  seem  as  if  'twas  goin'  to  hap 
pen,"  he  owned.  "  It  looked  pretty  dark  to 
me,  all  last  week.  It 's  a  good  deal  of  an  un- 
dertakin',  come  to  think  it  all  over.  I  dunno  's 
I  care  about  goin'." 


FARMER    ELI'S   VACATION.         19 

"  Why,  lather  !  After  you  've  thought  about 
it  so  many  years,  an'  Sereno  's  got  the  tents 
strapped  up,  an'  all  !  You  must  be  crazy  ! " 

"Well,"  said  the  farmer,  gently,  as  he  rose 
and  went  to  carry  the  milk-pails  into  the  pantry, 
calling  coaxingly,  as  he  did  so,  "  Kitty  !  kitty  ! 
You  had  your  milk?  Don't  you  joggle,  now  !  " 
For  one  eager  tabby  rose  on  her  hind  legs,  in 
purring  haste,  and  hit  her  nose  against  the 
foaming  saucer. 

Mrs.  Pike  came  ponderously  to  her  feet,  and 
followed,  with  the  heavy,  swaying  motion  of  one 
grown  fleshy  and  rheumatic.  She  was  not  in 
the  least  concerned  about  Eli's  change  of  mood. 
He  was  a  gentle  soul,  and  she  had  always  been 
able  to  guide  him  in  paths  of  her  own  choosing. 
Moreover,  the  present  undertaking  was  one 
involving  his  own  good  fortune,  and  she  meant 
to  tolerate  no  foolish  scruples  which  might  in 
terfere  with  its  result.  For  Eli,  though  he  had 
lived  all  his  life  within  easy  driving  distance  of 
the  ocean,  had  never  seen  it,  and  ever  since  his 
boyhood  he  had  cherished  one  darling  plan,  — 
some  day  he  would  go  to  the  shore,  and  camp 
out  there  for  a  week.  This,  in  his  starved  im 
agination,  was  like  a  dream  of  the  Acropolis  to 
an  artist  stricken  blind,  or  as  mountain  outlines 
to  the  dweller  in  a  lonely  plain.  But  the  years 
had  flitted  past,  and  the  dream  never  seemed 
nearer  completion.  There  were  always  plant- 


20  MEADOW-GRASS. 

ing,  haying,  and  harvesting  to  be  considered; 
and  though  he  was  fairly  prosperous,  excursions 
were  foreign  to  his  simple  habit  of  life.  But  at 
last,  his  wife  had  stepped  into  the  van,  and 
organized  an  expedition,  with  all  the  valor  of 
a  Francis  Drake. 

"  Now,  don't  you  say  one  word,  father,"  she 
had  said.  "  We  're  goin'  down  to  the  beach, 
Sereno,  an'  Hattie,  an'  you  an'  me,  an'  we  're 
goin'  to  camp  out.  It  '11  do  us  all  good." 

For  days  before  the  date  of  the  excursion,  Eli 
had  been  solemn  and  tremulous,  as  with  joy; 
but  now,  on  the  eve  of  the  great  event,  he 
shrank  back  from  it,  with  an  undefined  notion 
that  it  was  like  death,  and  that  he  was  not  pre 
pared.  Next  morning,  however,  when  they  all 
rose  and  took  their  early  breakfast,  preparatory 
to  starting  at  five,  he  showed  no  sign  of  inde 
cision,  and  even  went  about  his  outdoor  tasks 
with  an  alacrity  calculated,  as  his  wife  approv 
ingly  remarked,  to  "  for'ard  the  v'y'ge."  He  had 
at  last  begun  to  see  his  way  clear,  and  he  looked 
well  satisfied  when  his  daughter  Hattie  and 
Sereno,  her  husband,  drove  into  the  yard,  in  a 
wagon  cheerfully  suggestive  of  a  wandering 
life.  The  tents  and  a  small  hair-trunk  were 
stored  in  the  back,  and  the  horse's  pail  swung 
below. 

"Well,  father,"  called  Hattie,  her  rosy  face 
like  a  flower  under  the  large  shade-hat  she  had 


FARMER   ELI'S  VACATION.         21 

trimmed  for  the  occasion,  "  guess  we  're  goin' 
to  have  a  good  day  !  " 

He  nodded  from  the  window,  where  he  was 
patiently  holding  his  head  high  and  under 
going  strangulation,  while  his  wife,  breathing 
huskily  with  haste  and  importance,  put  on  his 
stock. 

"You  come  in,  Hattie,  an'  help  pack  the 
doughnuts  into  that  lard-pail  on  the  table,"  she 
called.  "  I  guess  you  '11  have  to  take  two  pails. 
They  ain't  very  big." 

At  length,  the  two  teams  were  ready,  and  Eli 
mounted  to  his  place,  where  he  looked  very 
slender  beside  his  towering  mate.  The  hired 
man  stood  leaning  on  the  pump,  chewing  a  bit 
of  straw,  and  the  cats  rubbed  against  his  legs, 
with  tails  like  banners ;  they  were  all  impressed 
by  a  sense  of  the  unusual. 

"  Well,  good-by,  Luke,"  Mrs.  Pike  called,  over 
her  shoulder ;  and  Eli  gave  the  man  a  solemn 
nod,  gathered  up  the  reins,  and  drove  out  of 
the  yard.  Just  outside  the  gate,  he  pulled  up. 

"Whoa  !  "  he  called,  and  Luke  lounged  for 
ward.  "  Don't  you  forgit  them  cats  !  Git  up, 
Doll  !  "  And  this  time,  they  were  gone. 

For  the  first  ten  miles  of  the  way,  familiar  in 
being  the  road  to  market,  Eli  was  placidly 
cheerful.  The  sense  that  he  was  going  to  do 
some  strange  deed,  to  step  into  an  unknown 
country,  dropped  away  from  him,  and  he 


22  MEADOW-GRASS. 

chatted,  in  his  intermittent,  serious  fashion,  of 
the  crops  and  the  lay  of  the  land. 

"  Pretty  bad  job  up  along  here,  ain't  it, 
father?"  called  Sereno,  as  they  passed  a  sterile 
pasture  where  two  plodding  men  and  a  yoke  of 
oxen  were  redeeming  the  soil  from  its  rocky 
fetters. 

"  There 's  a  good  deal  o'  pastur',  in  some 
places,  that  ain't  fit  for  nothin'  but  to  hold  the 
world  together,"  returned  Eli ;  and  then  he 
was  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Doll's  eloquent 
ears,  his  mouth  working  a  little.  For  this  pro 
gress  through  a  less  desirable  stratum  of  life 
caused  him  to  cast  a  backward  glance  over  his 
own  smooth,  middle-aged  road. 

"We've  prospered, 'ain't  we,  Maria?"  he 
said,  at  last ;  and  his  wife,  unconsciously  follow 
ing  his  thoughts,  in  the  manner  of  those  who 
have  lived  long  together,  stroked  her  black  silk 
visite,  and  answered,  with  a  well-satisfied  nod  : 

"I  guess  we 'ain't  got  no  cause  to  complain." 

The  roadside  was  parched  under  an  August 
sun ;  tansy  was  dust-covered,  and  ferns  had 
grown  ragged  and  gray.  The  jogging  horses 
left  behind  their  lazy  feet  a  suffocating  cloud. 

"  My  land  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pike,  "  if  that  ain't 
goldenrod  !  I  do  b'lieve  it  comes  earlier  every 
year,  or  else  the  seasons  are  changin'.  See 
them  elderberries  !  Ain't  they  purple  !  You 
jest  remember  that  bush,  an'  when  we  go  back, 


FARMER    ELI'S   VACATION.         23 

we  '11  fill  some  pails.  I  dunno  when  I  Ve  made 
elderberry  wine." 

Like  her  husband,  she  was  vaguely  excited  ; 
she  began  to  feel  as  if  life  would  be  all  holidays. 
At  noon,  they  stopped  under  the  shadow  of  an 
elm-tree  which,  from  its  foothold  in  a  field,  com 
pletely  arched  the  road ;  and  there  they  ate  a 
lunch  of  pie  and  doughnuts,  while  the  horses, 
freed  from  their  headstalls,  placidly  munched  a 
generous  feed  of  oats,  near  by.  Hattie  and  her 
mother  accepted  this  picnicking  with  an  air  of 
apologetic  amusement ;  and  when  one  or  two 
passers-by  looked  at  them,  they  smiled  a  little 
at  vacancy,  with  the  air  of  wishing  it  understood 
that  they  were  by  no  means  accustomed  to  such 
irregularities. 

"  I  guess  they  think  we  're  gypsies,"  said 
Hattie,  as  one  carriage  rolled  past. 

"  Well,  they  needn't  trouble  themselves," 
returned  her  mother,  rising  with  difficulty  to 
brush  the  crumbs  from  her  capacious  lap.  "  I 
guess  I  Ve  got  as  good  an  extension-table  to 
home  as  any  on  'em." 

But  Eli  ate  sparingly,  and  with  a  preoccupied 
and  solemn  look. 

"  Land,  father  !  "  exclaimed  his  wife,  "  you 
'ain't  eat  no  more'n  a  bird  !  " 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  over  to  that  well,"  said  he, 
"  an'  git  a  drink  o'  water.  I  drink  more  'n  I 
eat,  if  I  ain't  workin'."  But  when  he  came 


24  MEADOW-GRASS. 

back,  carefully  bearing  a  tin  pail  brimming  with 
cool,  clear  water,  his  face  expressed  strong  dis 
approbation,  and  he  smacked  his  lips  scorn 
fully. 

"  Terrible  flat  water  ! "  he  announced.  "  Tastes 
as  if  it  come  out  o'  the  cistern."  But  the  others 
could  find  no  fault  with  it,  and  Sereno  drained 
the  pail. 

"  Pretty  good,  I  call  it,"  he  said ;  and  Mrs. 
Pike  rejoined,  — 

"  You  always  was  pretty  particular  about  water, 
father." 

But  Eli  still  shook  his  head,  and  ejaculated, 
"Brackish,  brackish  !  "  as  he  began  to  put  the 
bit  in  Doll's  patient  mouth.  He  was  thinking, 
with  a  passion  of  loyalty,  of  the  clear,  ice-cold 
water  at  home,  which  had  never  been  shut  out, 
by  a  pump,  from  the  purifying  airs  of  heaven, 
but  lay  where  the  splashing  bucket  and  chain 
broke,  every  day,  the  image  of  moss  and  fern. 
His  throat  grew  parched  and  dry  with  longing. 

When  they  were  within  three  miles  of  the  sea, 
it  seemed  to  them  that  they  could  taste  the  salt- 
ness  of  the  incoming  breeze ;  the  road  was 
ankle- deep  in  dust;  the  garden  flowers  were 
glaring  in  their  brightness.  It  was  a  new  world. 
And  when  at  last  they  emerged  from  the  marsh- 
bordered  road  upon  a  ridge  of  sand,  and  turned 
a  sudden  corner,  Mrs.  Pike  faced  her  husband 
in  triumph. 


FARMER   ELI'S  VACATION.         25 

"  There,  father  !  "  she  cried.     "  There  'tis  !  " 

But  Eli's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  dashboard 
in  front  of  him.  He  looked  pale. 

"Why,  father,"  said  she,  impatiently,  "ain't 
you  goin'  to  look?  It 's  the  sea  !  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Eli,  quietly;  "byme-by. 
I  'm  goin'  to  put  the  horses  up  fust." 

"Well,  I  never!"  said  Mrs.  Pike;  and  as 
they  drew  up  on  the  sandy  tract  where  Sereno 
had  previously  arranged  a  place  for  their  tents, 
she  added,  almost  fretfully,  turning  to  Hattie, 
"  I  dunno  what 's  come  over  your  father. 
There  's  the  water,  an'  he  won't  even  cast  his 
eyes  at  it." 

But  Hattie  understood  her  father,  by  some 
intuition  of  love,  though  not  of  likeness. 

"  Don't  you  bother  him,  ma,"  she  said. 
"  He  '11  make  up  his  mind  to  it  pretty  soon. 
Here,  le's  lift  out  these  little  things,  while 
they  're  unharnessin',  and  then  they  can  get  at 
the  tents." 

Mrs.  Pike's  mind  was  diverted  by  the  exi 
gencies  of  labor,  and  she  said  no  more ;  but 
after  the  horses  had  been  put  up  at  a  neigh 
boring  house,  and  Sereno,  red-faced  with  exer 
tion,  had  superintended  the  tent-raising,  Hattie 
slipped  her  arm  through  her  father's,  and  led 
him  away. 

"  Come,  pa,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper ;  "  le's 
you  and  me  climb  over  on  them  rocks." 


26  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Eli  went ;  and  when  they  had  picked  their 
way  over  sand  and  pools  to  a  headland  where 
the  water  thundered  below,  and  salt  spray 
dashed  up  in  mist  to  their  feet,  he  turned  and 
looked  at  the  sea.  He  faced  it  as  a  soul  might 
face  Almighty  Greatness,  only  to  be  stricken 
blind  thereafter ;  for  his  eyes  filled  painfully 
with  slow,  hot  tears.  Hattie  did  not  look  at 
him,  but  after  a  while  she  shouted  in  his  ear, 
above  the  outcry  of  the  surf, — 

"  Here,  pa,  take  my  handkerchief.  I  don't 
know  how  'tis  about  you,  but  this  spray  gets  in 
my  eyes." 

Eli  took  it  obediently,  but  he  did  not  speak ; 
he  only  looked  at  the  sea.  The  two  sat  there, 
chilled  and  quite  content,  until  six  o'clock,  when 
Mrs.  Pike  came  calling  to  them  from  the  beach, 
with  dramatic  shouts,  emphasized  by  the  waving 
of  her  ample  apron,  — 

"  Supper 's  ready  !  Sereno  's  built  a  burn-fire, 
an'  I  Ve  made  some  tea  !  " 

Then  they  slowly  made  their  way  back  to 
the  tents,  and  sat  down  to  the  evening  meal. 
Sereno  seemed  content,  and  Mrs.  Pike  was  bust 
ling  and  triumphant ;  the  familiar  act  of  prepar 
ing  food  had  given  her  the  feeling  of  home. 

"  Well,  father,  what  think?  "  she  asked,  smiling 
exuberantly,  as  she  passed  him  his  mug  of  tea. 
"Does  it  come  up  to  what  you  expected?" 

Eli  turned  upon  her  his  mild,  dazed  eyes. 


FARMER    ELI'S  VACATION.         27 

"  I  guess  it  does,"  he  said,  gently. 

That  night,  they  sat  upon  the  shore  while  the 
moon  rose  and  laid  in  the  water  her  majestic 
pathway  of  light.  Eli  was  the  last  to  leave  the 
rocks,  and  he  lay  down  on  his  hard  couch  in 
the  tent,  without  speaking. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  much  to  father,"  whispered 
Hattie  to  her  mother,  as  they  parted  for  the 
night.  "  He  feels  it  more  'n  we  do." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  he  is  some  tired,"  said  Mrs. 
Pike,  acquiescing,  after  a  brief  look  of  surprise. 
"  It 's  a  good  deal  of  a  jaunt,  but  I  dunno  but  I 
feel  paid  a' ready.  Should  you  take  out  your 
hair-pins,  Hattie?" 

She  slept  soundly  and  vocally,  but  her  hus 
band  did  not  close  his  eyes.  He  looked,  though 
he  could  see  nothing,  through  the  opening  in 
the  tent,  in  the  direction  where  lay  the  sea, 
solemnly  clamorous,  eternally  responsive  to  some 
infinite  whisper  from  without  his  world.  The 
tension  of  the  hour  was  almost  more  than  he 
could  bear ;  he  longed  for  morning,  in  sharp 
suspense,  with  a  faint  hope  that  the  light  might 
bring  relief.  Just  as  the  stars  faded,  and  one 
luminous  line  pencilled  the  east,  he  rose, 
smoothed  his  hair,  and  stepped  softly  out  upon 
the  beach.  There  he  saw  two  shadowy  figures, 
Sereno  and  Hattie.  She  hurried  forward  to 
meet  him. 

"You  goin'  to  see  the  sunrise,  too,  father?" 


28  MEADOW-GRASS. 

she  asked.  "  I  made  Sereno  come.  He 's 
awful  mad  at  bein'  waked  up." 

Eli  grasped  her  arm. 

"  Hattie,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  "don't  you 
tell.  I  jest  come  out  to  see  how  'twas  here, 
before  I  go.  I  'm  goin'  home,  —  I  'm  goin' 
now!  " 

"  Why,  father  !  "  said  Hattie  ;  but  she  peered 
more  closely  into  his  face,  and  her  tone  changed. 
"  All  right,"  she  added,  cheerfully.  "  Sereno  '11 
go  and  harness  up." 

"  No  ;  I  'm  goin'  to  walk." 

"But,  father — " 

"  I  don't  mean  to  break  up  your  stayin'  here, 
nor  your  mother's.  You  tell  her  how  'twas. 
I  'm  goin'  to  walk." 

Hattie  turned  and  whispered  to  her  husband 
for  a  moment.  Then  she  took  her  father's 
hand. 

"  I  '11  slip  into  the  tent  and  put  you  up  some- 
thin'  for  your  breakfast  and  luncheon,"  she 
said.  "  Sereno  's  gone  to  harness  ;  for,  pa,  you 
must  take  one  horse,  and  you  can  send  Luke 
back  with  it  Friday,  so  's  we  can  get  the  things 
home.  WThat  do  we  want  of  two  horses  down 
here,  at  two  and  ninepence  a  day?  I  guess  I 
know  !  " 

So  Eli  yielded  ;  but  before  his  wife  appeared, 
he  had  turned  his  back  on  the  sea,  where  the 
rose  of  dawn  was  fast  unfolding.  As  he  jogged 


FARMER   ELI'S   VACATION.         29 

homeward,  the  dusty  roadsides  bloomed  with 
flowers  of  paradise,  and  the  insects'  dry  chirp 
thrilled  like  the  song  of  angels.  He  drove  into 
the  yard  just  at  the  turning  of  the  day,  when 
the  fragrant  smoke  of  many  a  crackling  fire 
curls  cheerily  upward,  in  promise  of  the  evening 
meal. 

"  What 's  busted  ?  "  asked  Luke,  swinging 
himself  down  from  his  load  of  fodder-corn,  and 
beginning  to  unharness  Doll. 

"  Oh,  nothin',"  said  Eli,  leaping  from  the 
wagon  as  if  twenty  years  had  been  taken  from 
his  bones.  "  I  guess  I  'm  too  old  for  such 
jaunts.  I  hope  you  didn't  forgit  them  cats." 


AFTER   ALL. 

E  land  o'  gracious  !  "  said  Mrs.  Lothrop 
Wilson,  laying  down  her  "  drawing-in 
hook  "  on  the  rug  stretched  between  two  chairs 
in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen,  and  getting  up  to 
look  from  the  window.  "  If  there  ain't  Lucindy 
comin'  out  o'  the  Pitmans'  without  a  thing  on 
her  head,  an'  all  them  little  curls  a-flyin'  !  An' 
the  old  Judge  ain't  cold  in  his  grave  !  " 

"  I  guess  the  Judge  won't  be  troubled  with 
cold,  any  to  speak  of,  arter  this,"  said  her  husband 
from  the  window,  where  he  sat  eating  his  fore 
noon  lunch  of  apple-pie  and  cheese.  He  was  a 
cooper,  and  perhaps  the  pleasantest  moment  in 
his  day  was  that  when  he  slipped  out  of  his 
shop,  leaving  a  bit  of  paper  tacked  on  the  door 
to  say  he  was  "  on  errands,"  and  walked  soberly 
home  for  his  bite  and  sup.  "If  he  ain't  good 
an'  warm  about  now,  then  the  Scriptur's  ain't 
no  more  to  be  depended  on  than  a  last  year's 
almanac." 

"  Lote  Wilson,  I  'm  ashamed  of  you,"  re 
torted  his  wife,  looking  at  him  with  such  reproof 
that,  albeit  she  had  no  flesh  to  spare,  she  made 
herself  a  double  chin.  "  An'  he  your  own  uncle, 


AFTER   ALL.  31 

too  !  Well,  he  was  nigh,  I  '11  say  that  for  him ; 
an'  if  he  'd  had  his  way,  the  sun  'd  ha'  riz  an' 
set  when  he  said  the  word.  But  Lucindy  's  his 
only  darter,  an'  if  she  don't  so  much  as  pretend 
to  be  a  mourner,  I  guess  there  ain't  nobody  that 
will.  There  !  don't  you  say  no  more  !  She  's 
comin'  in  here  !  " 

A  light  step  sounded  on  the  side  piazza.,  and 
Lucindy  came  in,  with  a  little  delicate,  swaying 
motion  peculiar  to  her  walk.  She  was  a  very 
slender  woman,  far  past  middle  life,  with  a  thin, 
smiling  face,  light  blue  eyes,  shining  with  an 
eager  brightness,  and  fine  hair,  which  escaped 
from  its  tight  twist  in  little  spiral  curls  about  the 
face. 

"  How  do,  Jane?  "  she  said,  in  an  even  voice, 
stirred  by  a  pleasant,  reedy  thrill.  "  How  do, 
Lote?  " 

Lothrop  pushed  forward  a  chair,  looking  at 
her  with  an  air  of  great  kindliness.  There  was 
some  slight  resemblance  between  them,  but  the 
masculine  type  seemed  entirely  lacking  in  that 
bright  alertness  so  apparent  in  her.  Mrs.  Wilson 
nodded,  and  went  back  to  her  drawing-in.  She 
was  making  a  very  red  rose  with  a  pink  middle. 

"  I  dunno  's  I  can  say  I  'm  surprised  to  see 
you,  Lucindy,"  she  began,  with  the  duteous 
aspect  of  one  forced  to  speak  her  disapproval, 
"  for  I  ketched  you  comin'  out  o"  the  Pitmans' 
yard." 


32  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"Yes,"  said  Lucindy,  smiling,  and  plaiting 
her  skirt  between  her  nervous  fingers.  "  Yes,  I 
went  in  to  see  if  they  'd  let  me  take  Old  Buck 
skin  a  spell  to-morrow." 

"  What  under  the  sun  —  "  began  Mrs.  Wilson ; 
but  her  husband  looked  at  her,  and  she  stopped- 
He  had  become  so  used  to  constituting  himself 
Lucindy's  champion  in  the  old  Judge's  day, 
now  just  ended,  that  he  kept  an  unremitting 
watch  on  any  one  who  might  threaten  her 
peace.  But  Lucindy  evidently  guessed  at  the 
unspoken  question. 

"  I  should  have  come  here,  if  I  'd  expected  to 
drive,"  she  said.  "  But  I  thought  maybe  your 
horse  wa'n't  much  used  to  women,  and  I  kind 
o'  dreaded  to  be  the  first  one  to  try  him  with  a 
saddle." 

Mrs.  Wilson  put  down  her  hook  again,  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair.  She  looked  from  her 
husband  to  Lucindy,  without  speaking.  But 
Lucindy  went  on,  with  the  innocent  simplicity 
of  a  happy  child. 

"  You  know  I  was  always  possessed  to  ride 
horseback,"  she  said,  addressing  herself  to  Lo- 
throp,  "  and  father  never  would  let  me.  And 
now  he  ain't  here,  I  mean  to  try  it,  and  see  if 
'tain't  full  as  nice  as  I  thought." 

"  Lucindy  !  "  burst  forth  Mrs.  Wilson,  explo 
sively,  "  ain't  you  goin'  to  pay  no  respect  to 
your  father's  memory?" 


AFTER   ALL.  33 

Lucindy  turned  to  her,  smiling  still,  but 
with  a  hint  of  quizzical  shrewdness  about  her 
mouth. 

"  I  guess  I  ain't  called  on  to  put  myself 
out,"  she  said,  simply,  yet  not  irreverently. 
"  Father  had  his  way  in  pretty  much  everything, 
while  he  was  alive.  I  always  made  up  my  mind 
if  I  should  outlive  him,  I  'd  have  all  the  things 
I  wanted  then,  when  young  folks  want  the  most. 
And  you  know  then  I  could  n't  get  'em." 

"  Well !  "  said  Mrs.  Wilson.  Her  tone  spoke 
volumes  of  conflicting  commentary. 

"  You  got  a  saddle?  "  asked  Lucindy,  turning 
to  her  cousin.  "  I  thought  I  remembered  you 
had  one  laid  away,  up  attic.  I  suppose  you  'd 
just  as  soon  I  'd  take  it?" 

He  was  neither  shocked  nor  amused.  He 
had  been  looking  at  her  very  sadly,  as  one  who 
read  in  every  word  the  entire  tragedy  of  a 
repressed  and  lonely  life. 

"Yes,  we  have,  Lucindy"  he  said,  gently, 
quieting  his  wife  by  a  motion  of  the  hand,  "  but 
'tain't  what  you  think.  It 's  a  man's  saddle. 
You  'd  have  to  set  straddle." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Lucindy,  a  faint  shade  of  disap 
pointment  clouding  her  face.  "  Well,  no  mat 
ter  !  I  guess  they  've  got  one  down  to  the 
Mardens'.  Jane,  should  you  just  as  soon  come 
round  this  afternoon,  and  look  over  some  bunnit 
trimmin's with  me?  I  took  two  kinds  of  flowers 
3 


34  MEADOW-GRASS. 

home  from  Miss  West's,  and  I  can't  for  my  life 
tell  which  to  have." 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  wear  black?  "  Mrs.  Wil 
son  spoke  now  in  double  italics. 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  don't  feel  called  on  to  do  that. 
I  always  liked  bright  colors,  and  I  don't  know  's 
'twould  be  real  honest  in  me  to  put  on  mournin' 
when  I  didn't  feel  it." 

"'Honor  thy  father'  — "  began  Jane,  in 
spite  of  her  husband's  warning  hand ;  but  Lu- 
cindy  interrupted  her,  with  some  perplexity. 

"  I  have,  Jane,  I  have  !  I  honored  father 
all  my  life,  just  as  much  as  ever  I  could.  I  done 
everything  he  ever  told  me,  little  and  big  !  No, 
though,  there  's  one  thing  I  never  fell  in  with. 
I  did  cheat  him  once.  I  don't  know  but  I  'm 
sorry  for  that,  now  it 's  all  past  and  gone  !  " 

Her  cousin  had  been  drumming  absently  on 
the  window-sill,  but  he  looked  up  with  awakened 
interest.  Mrs.  Wilson,  too,  felt  a  wholesale 
curiosity,  and  she,  at  least,  saw  no  reason  for 
curbing  it. 

"  What  was  it,  Lucindy?  "  she  asked.  "  The 
old  hunks  !  "  she  repeated  to  herself,  like  an 
anathema. 

Lucindy  began  her  confession,  with  eyes  down- 
dropped  and  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Father  wanted  I  should  have  my  hair  done 
up  tight  and  firm.  So  I  pretended  I  done  the 
best  I  could  with  it.  I  told  him  these  curls 


AFTER   ALL.  35 

round  my  face  and  down  in  my  neck  was  too 
short,  and  I  couldn't  pin  'em  up.  But  they 
wa'n't  curls,  and  they  wouldn't  ha'  been  short 
if  I  hadn't  cut  'em.  For  every  night,  and 
sometimes  twice  a  day,  I  curled  'em  on  a  pipe- 
stem." 

"  Ain't  them  curls  nat'ral,  Lucindy?  "  cried 
Mrs.  Wilson.  "  Have  you  been  fixin'  'em  to 
blow  round  your  face  that  way,  all  these  years?" 

"I  begun  when  I  was  a  little  girl,"  said  Lu 
cindy,  guiltily.  "  It  did  seem  kind  o'  wrong, 
but  I  took  real  pleasure  in  it  !  " 

Lothrop  could  bear  no  more.  He  wanted  to 
wipe  his  eyes,  but  he  chose  instead  to  walk 
straight  out  of  the  room  and  down  to  his  shop. 
His  wife  could  only  express  a  part  of  her  amaze 
ment  by  demanding,  in  a  futile  sort  of  way,  — 

"  Where  'cl  you  get  the  pipe?  " 

"  I  stole  the  first  one  from  a  hired  man  we 
had,"  said  Lucindy,  her  cheeks  growing  pink. 
"  Sometimes  I  had  to  use  slate-pencils." 

There  was  no  one  else  to  administer  judg 
ment,  and  Mrs.  Wilson  felt  the  necessity. 

"  Well,"  she  began,  "  an'  you  can  set  there, 
tellin'  that  an'  smilin'  - 

"  My  smilin'  don't  mean  any  more  'n  some 
other  folks'  cryin',  I  guess,"  said  Lucindy,  smil 
ing  still  more  broadly.  "  I  begun  that  more  'n 
thirty  years  ago.  I  looked  into  the  glass  one 
day,  and  I  see  the  corners  of  my  mouth  were 


36  MEADOW-GRASS. 

goin'  down.  Sharper  'n  vinegar,  I  was  !  So  I 
says  to  myself,  '  I  can  smile,  whether  or  no. 
Nobody  can't  help  that  ! '  And  I  did,  and  now 
I  guess  I  don't  know  when  I  do  it." 

"  Well !  " 

Lucindy  rose  suddenly  and  brushed  her  lap, 
as  if  she  dusted  away  imaginary  cares. 

"  There  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  've  said  more 
this  mornin'  than  I  have  for  forty  year  !  Don't 
you  lead  me  on  to  talk  about  what 's  past  and 
gone  !  The  only  thing  is,  I  mean  to  have  a 
good  time  now,  what  there  is  left  of  it.  Some 
things  you  can't  get  back,  and  some  you  can. 
Well,  you  step  round  this  afternoon,  won't 
you?  " 

"  I  dunno  's  I  can.  John 's  goin'  to  bring 
Claribel  up,  to  spend  the  arternoon  an'  stay  to 
supper." 

"  Why,  dear  heart  !  that  needn't  make  no 
difference.  I  should  admire  to  have  her,  too. 
I  '11  show  her  some  shells  and  coral  I  found  this 
mornin',  up  attic." 

Lucindy  had  almost  reached  the  street  when 
she  turned,  as  with  a  sudden  resolution,  and 
retraced  her  steps. 

"  Jane,"  she  called,  looking  in  at  the  kitchen 
window.  "  It 's  a  real  bright  day,  pretty  as  any 
't  ever  I  see.  Don't  you  worry  for  fear  o'  my 
disturbin'  them  that 's  gone,  if  I  do  try  to  ketch 
at  somethin'  pleasant.  If  they  're  wiser  now, 


AFTER   ALL.  37 

I  guess  they  '11  be  glad  I  had  sense  enough  left 
to  do  it !  " 

That  afternoon,  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  her  best  ging 
ham  and  checked  sunbonnet,  took  her  way 
along  the  village  street  to  the  old  Judge  Wilson 
house.  It  was  a  colonial  mansion,  sitting  aus 
terely  back  in  a  square  yard.  In  spite  of  its 
prosperity,  everything  about  it  wore  a  dreary 
air,  as  if  it  were  tired  of  being  too  well  kept ; 
for  houses  are  like  people,  and  carry  their  own 
indefinable  atmosphere  with  them.  Mrs.  Wil 
son  herself  lived  on  a  narrower  and  more  se 
cluded  street,  though  it  was  said  that  her 
husband,  if  he  had  not  defied  the  old  Judge  in 
some  crucial  matter,  might  have  studied  law 
with  him,  and  possibly  shared  his  speculations  in 
wool.  Then  he,  too,  might  have  risen  to  be  one 
of  the  first  men  in  the  county,  instead  of  work 
ing,  in  his  moderate  fashion,  for  little  more 
than  day's  wages.  Claribel,  a  pale,  dark-eyed 
child,  also  dressed  in  her  best  gingham,  walked 
seriously  by  her  grandmother's  side.  Lucindy 
was  waiting  for  them  at  the  door. 

"  I  declare  !  "  she  called,  delightedly.  "  I  was 
'most  afraid  you  'd  forgot  to  come  !  Well,  Clar 
ibel,  if  you  ain't  grown  !  They  '11  have  to  put 
a  brick  on  your  head,  or  you  '11  be  taller  'n 
grandma." 

Claribel  submitted  to  be  kissed,  and  they 
entered  the  large,  cool  sitting-room,  where  they 
took  off  their  things. 


38  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"You  make  yourself  at  home,  Jane,"  said 
Lucindy,  fluttering  about,  in  pleasant  excite 
ment.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  pay  you  a  mite  of 
attention  till  I  see  Claribel  fixed.  Now,  Claribel, 
remember  !  you  can  go  anywheres  you  're  a 
mind  to.  And  you  can  touch  anything  there  is. 
You  won't  find  a  thing  a  little  girl  can  hurt. 
Here,  you  come  here  where  I  be,  and  look  across 
the  entry.  See  that  big  lamp  on  the  table  ? 
Well,  if  you  unhook  them  danglin'  things  and 
peek  through  'em,  you  '11  find  the  brightest 
colors  !  My,  how  pretty  they  be  !  I  've  been 
lookin'  through  'em  this  mornin'.  I  used  to 
creep  in  and  do  it  when  I  was  little,"  she  con 
tinued,  in  an  aside  to  Mrs.  Wilson.  "  Once  I 
lost  one."  A  strange  look  settled  on  her  face ; 
she  was  recalling  a  bitter  experience.  "  There  !  " 
she  said,  releasing  Claribel  with  a  little  hug, 
"  now  run  along  !  If  you  look  on  the  lower 
shelf  of  the  what-not,  you  '11  see  some  shells  and 
coral  I  put  there  for  just  such  a  little  girl." 

Claribel  walked  soberly  away  to  her  playing. 

"  Don't  you  hurt  nothin'  !  "  called  Mrs.  Wil 
son  ;  and  Claribel  responded  properly,  — 

"  No,  'm." 

"There!"  said  Lucindy,  watching  the  pre 
cise  little  back  across  the  hall.  "  Now  le's 
talk  a  mite  about  vanity.  You  reach  me  that 
green  box  behind  your  chair.  Here  's  the 
best  flowers  Miss  West  had  for  what  I  wanted. 


AFTER   ALL.  39 

Here 's  my  bunnit,  too.  You  see  what  you 
think." 

She  set  the  untrimmed  bonnet  on  her  curls, 
and  laid  first  a  bunch  of  bright  chrysanthemums 
against  it,  and  then  some  strange  lavender 
roses.  The  roses  turned  her  complexion  to 
an  ivory  whiteness,  and  her  anxious,  intent  ex 
pression  combined  strangely  with  that  undesir 
able  effect. 

"My  soul,  Lucindy ! "  cried  Mrs.  Wilson, 
startled  into  a  more  robust  frankness  than  usual, 
"  you  do  look  like  the  Old  Nick  !  " 

A  shade  came  over  Miss  Lucindy's  honest 
face.  It  seemed,  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  were 
going  to  cry. 

"Don't  you  like  'em,  Jane?"  she  asked,  ap- 
pealingly.  "  Won't  neither  of  'em  do?  " 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  not  incapable  of  compunc 
tion,  but  she  felt  also  the  demands  of  the  family 
honor. 

"  Well,  Lucindy,"  she  began,  soothingly,  "  now 
'tain't  any  use,  is  it,  for  us  to  say  we  ain't  gettin' 
on  in  years  ?  We  be  !  You  're  my  age,  an'  — 
Why,  look  at  Claribel  in  there  !  What  should 
you  say,  if  you  see  me  settin'  out  to  meetin'  with 
red  flowers  on  my  bunnit  ?  I  should  be  nothin' 
but  a  laughin'-stock  !  " 

Lucindy  laid  the  flowers  back  in  their  box, 
with  as  much  tenderness  as  if  they  held  the 
living  fragrance  of  a  dream. 


40  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Well !  "  she  said,  wistfully.  Then  she  tried 
to  smile. 

"  Here  !  "  interposed  Mrs.  Wilson,  not  over- 
pleased  with  the  part  she  felt  called  upon  to 
play,  "  you  give  me  your  bunnit.  Don't  1  see 
your  old  sheaf  o'  wheat  in  the  box?  Let  me 
pin  it  on  for  you.  There,  now,  don't  that  look 
more  suitable?  " 

By  the  time  she  had  laid  it  on,  in  conven 
tional  flatness,  and  held  it  up  for  inspection, 
every  trace  of  rebellion  had  apparently  been 
banished  from  Lucindy's  mind. 

"  Here,"  said  the  victim  of  social  rigor,  "you 
hand  me  the  box,  and  I  '11  set  it  away." 

They  had  a  cosey,  old-fashioned  chat,  touch 
ing  upon  nothing  in  the  least  revolutionary, 
and  Mrs.  Wilson  was  glad  to  think  Lucindy 
had  forgotten  all  about  the  side-saddle.  This 
last  incident  of  the  bonnet,  she  reflected, 
showed  how  much  real  influence  she  had  over 
Lucindy.  She  must  take  care  to  exert  it 
kindly  but  seriously  now  that  the  old  Judge 
was  gone. 

"You  goin'  to  keep  your  same  help?"  she 
asked,  continuing  the  conversation. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  wouldn't  part  with  Ann  Toby 
for  a  good  deal.  She 's  goin'  to  have  her 
younger  sister  come  to  live  with  us  now.  We 
shall  be  a  passel  o'  women,  sha'n't  we?  " 

"  I  guess  it 's  well  for  you  Ann  Toby 's  what 


AFTER   ALL.  41 

she  is,  or  she  'd  cheat  you  out  o'  your  eye- 
teeth  !  " 

"  Well,"  answered  Lucindy,  easily,  "  I  ain't 
goin'  to  worry  about  my  eye-teeth.  If  I  be 
cheated  out  of  'em,  I  guess  I  can  get  a  new 
set." 

At  five  o'clock,  they  had  some  cookies,  osten 
sibly  for  Claribel,  since  Mrs.  Wilson  could  not 
stay  to  tea ;  and  then,  when  the  little  maid  had 
taken  hers  out  to  the  front  steps,  Lucindy 
broached  a  daring  plan,  that  moment  conceived. 

"Say,  Jane,"  she  whispered,  with  great  pre 
tence  of  secrecy,  "  what  do  you  think  just  come 
into  my  head?  Do  you  s'pose  Mattie  would 
be  put  out,  if  I  should  give  Claribel  a  hat?  " 

"  Mercy  sakes,  no  !  all  in  the  family  so  !  But 
what  set  you  out  on  that?  She's  got  a  good 
last  year's  one  now,  an'  the  ribbin  's  all  pressed 
out  an'  turned,  complete." 

<l  I  '11  tell  you,"  said  Lucindy,  leaning  nearer, 
and  speaking  as  if  she  feared  the  very  corners 
might  hear.  "  You  know  I  never  was  allowed 
to  wear  bright  colors.  And  to  this  day,  I  see 
the  hats  the  other  girls  had,  blue  on  'em,  and 
pink.  And  if  I  could  stand  by  and  let  a  little 
girl  pick  out  a  hat  for  herself,  without  a  word  said 
to  slop  her,  'twould  be  real  agreeable  to  me." 
Lucindy  was  shrewd  enough  to  express  herself 
somewhat  moderately.  She  knew  by  experience 
how  plainly  Jane  considered  it  a  duty  to  discour- 


42  MEADOW-GRASS. 

age  any  overmastering  emotion.  But  Jane  Wilson 
was,  at  the  same  instant,  feeling  very  keenly  that 
Lucindy,  faded  and  old  as  she  was,  needed  to 
be  indulged  in  all  her  riotous  fancies.  She 
repressed  the  temptation,  however,  at  its  birth. 

"  Why,  I  dunno  's  there  's  anything  in  the 
way  of  it,"  she  said,  soberly. 

"  Then,  if  you  must  go,  I  '11  walk  right  along 
now.  Claribel  and  I  '11  go  down  to  Miss  West's, 
and  see  what  she  's  got.  Nothin'  's  to  be  gained 
by  waitin'  !  " 

When  they  walked  out  through  the  hall  to 
gether,  Lucindy  cast  a  quick  and  eager  glance 
into  the  parlor.  She  almost  hoped  Claribel 
had  unhooked  the  glass  prisms  from  the  lamp, 
and  left  them  scattered  on  the  floor,  or  that 
she  had  broken  the  precious  shells,  more  than 
half  a  century  old.  She  wanted  to  put  her  arms 
round  her,  and  say  fondly,  "  Never  mind  !  "  But 
the  room  was  in  perfect  order,  and  little  Clar 
ibel  waited  for  them,  conscious  of  a  propriety 
unstained  by  guilt. 

"  Lucindy,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  also  had 
used  her  eyes,  "  where  's  your  father's  canes? 
They  al'ays  stood  right  here  in  this  corner." 

Lucindy  flushed. 

"  Jane,"  she  whispered,  "  don't  you  tell,  but 
I  —  I  buried  'em  !  I  felt  somehow  as  if  I 
couldn't  —  do  the  things  I  wanted  to,  if  they 
set  there  just  the  same." 


AFTER   ALL.  43 

Jane  could  only  look  at  her  in  silence. 

"Well,"  she  said,  at  length,  "it  takes  all 
kinds  o'  people  to  make  a  world  !  " 

That,  at  least,  was  non-committal. 

She  left  the  shoppers  at  her  own  gate,  and 
they  walked  on  together.  Lucindy  was  the  more 
excited  of  the  two. 

"Now,  Claribel,"  she  was  saying,  "you  re 
member  you  can  choose  any  hat  you  see,  and 
have  it  trimmed  just  the  way  you  like.  What 
color  do  you  set  by  most?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Claribel.  4<  Blue,  I 
guess." 

"  Well,  there  's  a  hat  there  all  trimmed  with  it. 
I  see  it  this  mornin'.  Real  bright,  pretty  blue  ! 
I  believe  there  was  some  little  noddin'  yellow 
flowers  on  it,  too.  But  mind  you  don't  take  it 
unless  you  like  it." 

Miss  WTest's  shop  occupied  the  front  room  of 
her  house,  a  small  yellow  one  on  a  side  street. 
The  upper  part  of  the  door  was  of  glass,  and  it 
rang  a  bell  as  it  opened.  Lucindy  had  had 
very  few  occasions  for  going  there,  and  she 
entered  with  some  importance.  The  bell 
clanged ;  and  Miss  West,  a  portly  woman,  came 
in  from  the  back  room,  whisking  off  her  apron 
in  haste. 

"  Oh,  that  you,  Miss  Lucindy?  "  she  called. 
"  I  've  just  been  fryin'  some  riz  doughnuts. 
Well,  how 'd  the  flowers  suit?" 


44  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  I  haven't  quite  made  up  ray  mind,"  said 
Lucindy,  trying  to  speak  with  the  dignity  befit 
ting  her  quest.  "  I  just  come  in  with  little 
Claribel  here.  She  's  goin'  to  have  a  new  hat, 
and  her  grandma  said  she  might  come  down 
with  me  to  pick  it  out.  You  've  got  some  all 
trimmed,  I  believe?" 

Miss  West  opened  a  drawer  in  an  old-fash 
ioned  bureau. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I've  got  two  my  niece 
trimmed  for  me  before  she  went  to  make  her 
visit  to  Sudleigh.  One  's  blue.  I  guess  you  've 
seen  that.  Then  there  's  a  nice  white  one.  The 
'  Weekly  '  says  white  's  all  the  go,  this  year." 

She  took  out  two  little  hats,  and  balanced 
them  on  either  hand.  The  blue  one  was 
strongly  accented.  The  ribbon  was  very  broad 
and  very  bright,  and  its  nodding  cowslips 
gleamed  in  cheerful  yellow. 

"Ain't  that  a  beauty?  "  whispered  Lucindy 
close  to  the  little  girl's  ear.  "  But  there  !  Don't 
you  have  it  unless  you  'd  rather.  There  's  lots 
of  other  colors,  you  know;  pink,  and  all 
sorts." 

Claribel  put  out  one  little  brown  hand,  and 
timidly  touched  the  other  hat. 

"  This  one,"  she  said. 

It  was  very  plain,  and  very  pretty ;  yet  there 
were  no  flowers,  and  the  modest  white  ribbon 
lay  smoothly  about  the  crown.  Miss  Lucindy 


AFTER   ALL.  45 

gave  a  little  cry,  as  if  some  one  had  hurt 
her. 

"  O  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "O  Claribel !  you  sure  ?  " 

Claribel  was  sure. 

"She's  got  real  good  taste,"  put  in  Miss 
West.  "  Shall  I  wrop  it  up?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Lucindy,  drearily.  "We  '11 
take  it.  But  I  suppose  if  she  should  change 
her  mind  before  she  wore  it  —  "she  added, 
with  some  slight  accession  of  hope. 

"  Oh,  yes,  bring  it  right  back.  I  '11  give  her 
another  choice." 

But  Claribel  was  not  likely  to  change  her 
mind.  On  the  way  home,  she  walked  sedately, 
and  carried  her  hat  with  the  utmost  care.  At 
her  grandmother's  gate,  she  looked  up  shyly,  and 
spoke  of  her  own  accord,  — 

"  Thank  you,  ever  so  much  !  " 

Then  she  fled  up  the  path,  her  bundle  waving 
before  her.  That,  at  least,  looked  like  sponta 
neous  joy,  and  the  sight  of  it  soothed  Lucindy 
into  a  temporary  resignation ;  yet  she  was  very 
much  disappointed. 

The  next  afternoon,  Tiverton  saw  a  strange 
and  wondrous  sight.  The  Crane  boy  led  Old 
Buckskin,  under  an  ancient  saddle,  into  Miss 
Lucindy's  yard,  and  waited  there  before  her 
door.  The  Crane  boy  had  told  all  his  mates, 
and  they  had  told  their  fathers  and  mothers,  so 
that  a  wild  excitement  flew  through  the  village, 


4  6  MEADOW-GRASS. 

like  stubble  fire,  stirring  the  inhabitants  to  futile 
action.  "  It's  like  the  'clipse,"  said  one  of  the 
squad  of  children  collected  at  the  gate,  "  only 
they  ain't  no  smoked  glass."  Some  of  the  grown 
people  "  made  an  errand  "  for  the  sake  of  being 
in  the  street,  but  those  who  lived  near-by  sim 
ply  mounted  guard  at  their  doors  and  windows. 
The  horse  had  not  waited  long  when  Miss  Lu- 
cindy  appeared  before  the  gaze  of  an  eager 
world.  Her  face  had  wakened  into  a  keen 
excitement. 

"  Here  !  "  she  called  to  the  Crane  boy's 
brother,  who  was  lingering  in  the  background 
grinding  his  toes  on  the  gravel  and  then  lifting 
them  in  sudden  agony,  "  you  take  this  kitchen 
chair  and  set  it  down  side  of  him,  so  't  I  can 
climb  up." 

The  chair  was  placed,  and  Miss  Lucindy 
essayed  to  climb,  but  vainly. 

"  Ann  !  "  she  called,  "  you  bring  me  that 
little  cricket." 

Ann  Toby  appeared  unwillingly,  the  little 
cricket  in  her  hand.  She  was  a  tall,  red-haired 
woman,  who  bore  the  reputation  of  being  willing 
to  be  "  tore  into  inch  pieces  "  for  Miss  Lucindy. 
Her  freckled  face  burned  red  with  shame  and 
anger. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  you  come  back  into  the 
house  !  "  she  whispered,  with  tragic  meaning. 
"  You  jest  give  it  up,  an'  I  '11  scatter  them  boys. 


AFTER   ALL.  47 

Sassy  little  peeps  !  what  are  they  starin'  round 
here  for,  I  'd  like  to  know  !  " 

But  Lucindy  had  mounted  the  cricket  with 
much  agility,  and  seated  herself  on  the  horse's 
back.  Once  she  slipped  off;  but  the  Crane  boy 
had  the  address  to  mutter,  "  Put  your  leg  over 
the  horn  !  "  and,  owing  to  that  timely  advice,  she 
remained.  But  he  was  to  experience  the  grati 
tude  of  an  unfeeling  world  ;  for  Ann  Toby,  in 
the  irritation  of  one  tried  beyond  endurance, 
fell  upon  him  and  cuffed  him  soundly.  And 
Mrs.  Crane,  passing  the  gate  at  that  moment, 
did  not  blame  her. 

"  My  !  it  seems  a  proper  high  place  to  set," 
remarked  Lucindy,  adjusting  herself.  "  Well,  I 
guess  I  sha'n't  come  to  no  harm.  I  '11  ride 
round  to  your  place,  boys,  when  I  get  through, 
and  leave  the  horse  there."  She  trotted  out  of 
the  yard  amid  the  silence  of  the  crowd. 

The  spectacle  was  too  awesome  to  be  funny, 
even  to  the  boys  ;  it  seemed  to  Tiverton  strangely 
like  the  work  of  madness.  Only  one  little  boy 
recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  run  after  her 
and  hold  up  a  switch  he  had  been  peeling. 

"  Here  !  "  he  piped  up,  daringly,  "  you  want  a 
whip." 

Lucindy  smiled  upon  him  benignly. 

"  I  never  did  believe  in  abusin'  dumb  crea- 
tur's,"  she  said,  "  but  I  'm  much  obliged."  She 
took  the  switch  and  rode  on. 


48  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Now  Mrs.  Wilson  had  heard  the  rumor  too 
late  to  admit  of  any  interference  on  her  part, 
and  she  was  staying  indoors,  suffering  an  agony 
of  shame,  determined  not  to  countenance  the 
scandalous  sight  by  her  presence.  But  as  she 
sat  "  hooking-in,"  the  window  was  darkened, 
and  involuntarily  she  lifted  her  eyes.  There 
was  the  huge  bulk  of  a  horse,  and  there  was 
Lucindy.  The  horsewoman's  cheeks  were  bright 
red  with  exercise  and  joy.  She  wore  a  black 
dress  and  black  mitts.  Her  little  curls  were 
flying ;  and  oh,  most  unbearable  of  all  !  they 
were  surmounted  by  a  bonnet  bearing  no  modest 
sheaf  of  wheat,  but  blossoming  brazenly  out  into 
lavender  roses.  The  spectacle  was  too  much 
for  Mrs.  Wilson.  She  dropped  her  hook,  and 
flew  to  the  door. 

"  Well,  I  Ye  known  a  good  deal,  fust  an'  last, 
but  I  never  see  the  beat  o'  this  !  Lucindy, 
where  'd  you  git  that  long  dress?  " 

"  It  's  my  cashmere,"  answered  Lucindy,  joy 
ously.  "  I  set  up  last  night  to  lengthen  it 
down." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  did  !    Lothrop  !  " 

Her  husband  had  been  taking  a  nap  in  the 
sitting-room,  and  he  came  out,  rubbing  his  eyes. 
Mrs.  Wilson  could  not  speak  for  curiosity.  She 
watched  him  with  angry  intentness.  She  won 
dered  if  he  would  take  Lucindy's  part  now  !  But 
Lothrop  only  moved  forward  and  felt  at  the  girth. 


AFTER   ALL.  49 

"  You  know  you  want  to  pull  him  up  if  he 
stumbles,"  he  said  ;  "but  I  guess  he  won't.  He 
was  a  stiddy  horse,  fifteen  year  ago." 

"  Lothrop,"  began  his  wife,  "  do  you  want  to 
be  made  a  laughin'-stock  in  this  town  — 

"  I  guess  if  I  've  lived  in  a  place  over  sixty 
year  an'  hiF  my  own,  I  can  yet,"  said  Lothrop, 
quietly.  "You  don't  want  to  ride  too  long, 
Lucindy.  You  '11  be  lame  to-morrer." 

"  I  didn't  suppose  'twould  jounce  so,"  said 
Lucindy  ;  "  but  it's  proper  nice.  I  don't  know 
what  'twould  be  on  a  real  high  horse.  Well, 
good-by  !  "  She  turned  the  horse  about,  and 
involuntarily  struck  him  with  her  little  switch. 
Old  Buckskin  broke  into  a  really  creditable  trot, 
and  they  disappeared  down  the  village  street. 
Lothrop  sensibly  took  his  way  down  to  the  shop 
while  his  wife  was  recovering  her  powers  of 
speech ;  and  for  that,  Jane  herself  mentally 
commended  him. 

Lucindy  kept  on  out  of  the  village  and  along 
the  country  road.  The  orioles  were  singing  in 
the  elms,  and  the  leaves  still  wore  the  gloss  of 
last  night's  shower.  The  earth  smiled  like  a 
new  creation,  very  green  and  sweet,  and  the 
horse's  hoofs  made  music  in  Lucindy's  mind. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  lost  sight  both  of 
youth  and  crabbed  age  ;  the  pendulum  stood 
still  in  the  jarring  machinery  of  time,  the  hands 
pointing  to  a  moment  of  joy.  She  was  quite 
4 


50  MEADOW-GRASS. 

happy,  as  any  of  us  may  be  who  seek  the  fellow 
ship  of  dancing  leaves  and  strong,  bright  sun. 
She  turned  into  a  cross-road,  hardly  wider  than 
a  lane,  and  bordered  with  wild  rose  and  fragrant 
raspberry.  There  was  but  one  house  here,  —  a 
little,  time-stained  cottage,  where  Tom  McNeil 
lived  with  his  wife  and  five  children.  Perhaps 
these  were  the  happiest  people  in  all  Tiverton, 
though  no  one  but  themselves  had  ever  found 
it  out.  Tom  made  shoes  in  a  desultory  fashion, 
and  played  the  fiddle  earnestly  all  winter,  and 
in  summer,  peddled  essences  and  medicines 
from  a  pack  strapped  over  his  shoulders.  Some 
times  in  the  warm  summer  weather  Molly,  his 
wife,  and  all  the  children  tramped  with  him,  so 
that  the  house  was  closed  for  weeks  at  a  time,  — 
a  thing  very  trying  to  the  conventional  sensi 
bilities  of  Tiverton.  Tom  might  have  had  a 
"stiddy  job  o'  work  "  with  some  of  the  farmers  ; 
Molly  might  have  helped  about  the  churning 
and  ironing.  But  no  !  they  were  like  the  birds, 
nesting  happily  in  summer,  and  drawing  their 
feet  under  their  feathers  when  the  snow  drifted 
in.  The  children  —  lank,  wild-eyed  creatures  — 
each  went  to  school  a  few  months,  and  then 
stopped,  unable  to  bear  the  cross  of  confine 
ment  within  four  dull  walls.  They  could  not 
write  ;  it  was  even  rumored  that  they  had  never 
learned  to  tell  time.  And,  indeed,  what  good 
would  it  have  done  them  when  the  clock  was 


AFTER   ALL.  51 

run  down  and  stood  always  at  the  hour  of  noon? 
But  they  knew  where  thoroughwort  grows,  and 
the  wholesome  goldthread  ;  they  gathered  cress 
and  peppermint,  and  could  tell  the  mushroom 
from  its  noisome  kindred.  Day  after  day,  they 
roamed  the  woods  for  simples  to  be  distilled  by 
the  father,  and  made  into  potent  salves  and 
ointments  for  man  and  the  beasties  he  loved 
better. 

When  Lucindy  came  in  sight  of  the  house, 
she  was  glad  to  find  it  open.  She  had  scarcely 
gone  so  far  afield  for  years,  and  the  reports 
concerning  this  strange  people  had  reached  her 
only  by  hearsay.  She  felt  like  a  discoverer. 
In  close  neighborhood  to  the  house  stood  a 
peculiar  structure,  —  the  half-finished  dwelling 
McNeil  had  attempted,  in  a  brief  access  of 
ambition,  to  build  with  his  own  hands.  The 
chimney,  slightly  curving  and  very  ragged  at 
the  top,  stood  foolishly  above  the  unfinished 
lower  story.  Lucindy  remembered  hearing  how 
Tom  had  begun  the  chimney  first,  and  built 
the  house  round  it.  But  the  fulfilment  of  his 
worldly  dream  never  came  to  pass ;  and  perhaps 
it  was  quite  as  well,  for  thereby  would  the  unity 
of  his  existence  have  been  destroyed.  He 
might  have  lived  up  to  the  house ;  he  might 
even  have  grown  into  a  proud  man,  and  accu 
mulated  dollars.  But  the  bent  of  birth  was  too 
much  for  him.  A  day  dawned,  warm  and  en- 


5  2  MEADOW-GRASS. 

trancing ;  he  left  his  bricks  and  boards  in  the 
midst,  and  the  whole  family  went  joyfully  off 
on  a  tramp.  To  Tiverton,  the  unfinished  house 
continued  to  serve  as  an  immortal  joke,  and 
Tom  smiled  as  broadly  as  any.  He  always 
said  he  couldn't  finish  it ;  he  had  mislaid  the 
plan. 

A  little  flower-garden  bloomed  between  the 
two  houses,  and  on  the  grass,  by  one  of  its 
clove-pink  borders,  sat  a  woman,  rocking  back 
and  forth  in  an  ancient  chair,  and  doing  abso 
lutely  nothing.  She  was  young,  and  seemed  all 
brown ;  for  her  eyes  were  dark,  and  her  skin 
had  been  tanned  to  the  deep,  rich  tint  sweeter 
to  some  eyes  than  pure  roses  and  milk.  Lucindy 
guided  Buckskin  up  to  the  gate,  and  Molly 
McNeil  looked  up  and  smiled  without  moving. 

"How  do?"  she  said,  in  a  soft,  slow  voice. 
"  Won't  you  come  in?  " 

Lucindy  was  delighted.  It  was  long  since 
she  had  met  a  stranger. 

"Well,  I  would,"  she  answered,  "but  I  don't 
know  as  I  can  get  down.  This  is  new  business 
to  me." 

"  Ellen,"  called  Mrs.  McNeil,  "  you  bring 
out  somethin'  to  step  on  !  " 

A  little  girl  appeared  with  a  yellow  kitchen 
chair.  Mrs.  McNeil  rose,  carried  it  outside  the 
gate,  and  planted  it  by  Buckskin's  side. 

"There  !  "  she  said,  "  you  put  your  hand  on 


AFTER   ALL.  53 

my  shoulder  and  step  down.  It  won't  tip.  I  've 
got  my  knee  on  it." 

Lucindy  alighted,  with  some  difficulty,  and 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  '11  hitch  him,"  said  Molly  McNeil.  "  You 
go  in  and  sit  down  in  that  chair,  and  Ellen  '11 
bring  you  a  drink  of  water." 

Ellen  was  barelegged  and  barefooted.  Her 
brown  hair  hung  over  her  dark  eyes  in  a  pleas 
ant  tangle.  Her  even  teeth  were  white,  and 
her  lips  red.  There  was  no  fault  nor  blemish 
in  her  little  face  ;  and  when  she  had  brought  the 
dipper  full  of  water,  and  stood  rubbing  one  foot 
against  its  neighboring  leg,  Lucindy  thought 
she  had  never  seen  anything  so  absolutely  be 
witching.  Molly  had  hitched  the  horse,  in 
manly  and  knowing  fashion,  and  then  seated 
herself  on  the  kitchen  chair  beside  Lucindy  ; 
but  the  attitude  seemed  not  to  suit  her,  and 
presently  she  rose  and  lay  quietly  down  at  full 
length  on  the  grass.  She  did  it  quite  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course,  and  her  visitor  thought  it  looked 
very  pleasant ;  possibly  she  would  have  tried  it 
herself  if  she  had  not  been  so  absorbed  in  an 
other  interest.  She  was  watching  the  little  girl, 
who  was  running  into  the  house  with  the  dipper. 

"  Ain't  she  complete  !  "  she  said.  "  Your 
oldest?" 

"  She  ain't  mine  at  all."  Mrs.  McNeil  rose 
on  one  elbow,  and  began  chewing  a  grass  stem. 


54  MEADOW-GRASS. 

It  was  very  restful  to  Lucindy  to  see  some  one 
who  was  too  much  interested  in  anything,  how 
ever  trivial,  to  be  interested  in  her.  "  You  know 
about  the  Italian  that  come  round  with  the 
hand-organ  last  month?  He  was  her  father. 
Well,  he  died,  —  fell  off  a  mow  one  night,  —  and 
the  town  sold  the  hand-organ  and  kept  Ellen 
awhile  on  the  farm.  But  she  run  away,  and 
my  boys  found  her  hidin'  in  the  woods  starved 
most  to  death.  So  I  took  her  in,  and  the  over 
seer  said  I  was  welcome  to  her.  She  's  a  nice 
little  soul." 

"  She  's  proper  good-lookin'  !  "  Lucindy's 
eyes  were  sparkling. 

"  She  don't  look  as  well  as  common  to-day, 
for  the  boys  went  off  plummin'  without  her. 
She  was  asleep,  and  I  didn't  want  to  call  her. 
She  had  a  cryin'  spell  when  she  waked  up,  but 
I  didn't  know  which  way  they'd  gone." 

Ellen  came  wandering  round  the  side  of  the 
house,  and  Lucindy  crooked  a  trembling  finger 
at  her. 

"  Come  here  !  "  she  called.  "  You  come  here 
and  see  me  !  " 

Ellen  walked  up  to  her  with  a  steady  step, 
and  laid  one  little  brown  hand  on  Lucindy's 
knee.  But  the  old  Judge's  daughter  drew  the 
child  covetously  to  her  lap. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  "  should  you  like  to 
go  home  and  spend  a  week  with  me?  " 


AFTER   ALL.  55 

The  little  maid  threw  back  her  tangle  of  curls, 
and  looked  Lucindy  squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

Lucindy's  grasp  tightened  round  her. 

"  How  should  you  like  to  live  with  me?  " 

The  child  touched  her  little  breast  inquiringly 
with  one  finger. 

"Me?"  She  pointed  over  to  Mrs.  McNeil, 
who  lay  listening  and  stretching  her  limbs  in 
lazy  comfort.  "Leave  her?"  And  then, 
gravely,  "  No ;  she  's  good  to  me." 

Lucindy's  heart  sank. 

"  You  could  come  over  to  see  her,"  she 
pleaded,  "  and  1  'd  come  too.  We  'd  all  go 
plummin'  together.  I  should  admire  to  !  And 
we  'd  have  parties,  and  ask  'em  all  over.  What 
say?" 

The  child  sat  straight  and  serious,  one  warm 
hand  clinging  to  Lucindy's  slender  palm.  But 
her  eyes  still  sought  the  face  of  her  older  friend. 
Molly  McNeil  rose  to  a  sitting  posture.  She 
took  the  straw  from  her  mouth,  and  spoke  with 
the  happy  frankness  of  those  who  have  no  fear 
because  they  demand  nothing  save  earth  and 
sky  room. 

"  I  know  who  you  are,"  she  said  to  Lucindy. 
"  You  're  left  well  off,  and  I  guess  you  could 
bring  up  a  child,  give  you  your  way.  We  're 
as  poor  as  poverty  !  You  take  her,  if  she  '11  go. 
Ellen,  she  's  a  nice  lady  ;  you  better  say  '  yes.'  " 


5  6  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Lucindy  was  trembling  all  over. 

"You  come,  dear,"  she  urged,  piteously. 
"You  come  and  live  with  me." 

Ellen  thought  a  moment  more.  Then  she 
nodded. 

"  I  '11  come,"  said  she. 

Lucindy  could  not  wait. 

"  I  '11  send  a  wagon  over  after  her  to-night." 
She  had  put  Ellen  down,  and  was  rising  trem 
blingly.  "  I  won't  stop  to  talk  no  more  now, 
but  you  come  and  see  me,  won't  you?  Now, 
if  you  '11  help  me  mount  up  —  there  !  My  !  it's 
higher  'n  'twas  before  !  Well,  I  '11  see  you 
again."  She  turned  Old  Buckskin's  head  away 
from  the  fence  ;  then  she  pulled  him  fiercely 
round  again.  "  Here  !  "  she  called,  "  what  if 
she  should  jump  up  behind  me  and  come 
now  !  " 

Mrs.  McNeil,  being  the  thrall  only  of  the 
earth,  saw  no  reason  why  a  thing  should  not  be 
done  as  one  wanted  it.  She  lifted  the  child 
and  set  her  on  the  horse  behind  Lucindy.  And 
so,  in  this  strange  fashion,  the  two  entered  the 
high  street  of  Tiverton. 

A  few  weeks  after  this,  Mrs.  Wilson  and  Lu 
cindy  went  together  to  the  little  millinery  shop. 
Ellen  trotted  between  them,  taking  excursions 
into  the  street,  now  and  again,  in  pursuit  of 
butterflies  or  thistledown.  When  they  entered, 


AFTER   ALL.  57 

MioS  West,  who  had  seen  their  approach  from 
her  position  at  the  ironing-board,  came  forward 
with  a  gay  little  hat  in  her  hand.  It  was 
trimmed  with  pink,  and  a  wreath  of  tiny  white 
flowers  clung  about  the  crown.  She  set  it  on 
Ellen's  curls ;  and  Ellen,  her  face  quite  radiant, 
looked  up  at  Miss  Lucindy  for  approval.  But 
that  lady  was  gazing  anxiously  at  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"  Now,  there  ain't  anything  unsuitable  about 
that,  is  there?"  she  asked.  "  I  know  it's  gay, 
and  I  want  it  to  be  gay.  I  can  tell  about  that ! 
But  is  it  all  right?  Is  it  such  as  you'd  be 
willin'  to  have  Claribel  wear?" 

"  It 's  a  real  beauty  !  "  Mrs.  Wilson  answered, 
cordially  ;  but  she  could  not  refrain  from  add 
ing,  while  Miss  West  was  doing  up  the  hat,  and 
Ellen  surreptitiously  tried  on  a  black  poke  bon 
net,  "  Now,  don't  you  spile  her,  Lucindy  !  She  's 
a  nice  little  girl  as  ever  was,  but  you  ain't  no 
more  fit  to  bring  up  a  child  than  the  cat !  " 

Lucindy  did  not  hear.  She  was  smiling  at 
Ellen,  and  Ellen  smiled  back  at  her.  They 
thought  they  knew. 


TOLD   IN   THE   POORHOUSE. 

"  T  E'  me  see,"  said  old  Sally  Flint,  "  was  it 
••— '  fifty  year  ago,  or  was  it  on'y  forty? 
Some'er's  betwixt  1825  an'  '26  it  must  ha'  been 
when  they  were  married,  an'  'twas  in  '41  he 
died." 

The  other  old  women  in  the  Poorhouse  sit 
ting-room  gathered  about  her.  Old  Mrs.  Forbes, 
who  dearly  loved  a  story,  unwound  a  length  of 
yarn  with  peculiar  satisfaction,  and  put  her  worn 
shoe  up  to  the  fire.  Everybody  knew  when 
Sally  Flint  was  disposed  to  open  her  unwritten 
book  of  folk-tales  for  the  public  entertainment ; 
and  to-day,  having  tied  on  a  fresh  apron  and 
bound  a  new  piece  of  red  flannel  about  her 
wrist,  she  was,  so  to  speak,  in  fighting  trim. 
The  other  members  of  the  Poorhouse  had  scanty 
faith  in  that  red  flannel.  They  were  aware  that 
Sally  had  broken  her  wrist,  some  twenty  years 
before,  and  that  the  bandage  was  consequently 
donned  on  days  when  her  "  hand  felt  kind  o' 
cold,"  or  was  "burnin'  like  fire  embers;"  but 
there  was  an  unspoken  suspicion  that  it  really 


TOLD  IN   THE   POOKHOUSE.       59 

served  as  token  of  her  inability  to  work  when 
ever  she  felt  bored  by  the  prescribed  routine  of 
knitting  and  sweeping.  No  one  had  dared  pre 
sume  on  that  theory,  however,  since  the  day 
when  an  untactful  overseer  had  mentioned  it,  to 
be  met  by  such  a  stream  of  unpleasant  reminis 
cence  concerning  his  immediate  ancestry  that 
he  had  retreated  in  dismay,  and  for  a  week 
after,  had  served  extra  pieces  of  pie  to  his  justly 
offended  charge. 

"They  were  married  in  June,"  continued 
Sally.  "No,  'twa'n't ;  'twas  the  last  o'  May. 
May  thirty-fust  —  no,  May  'ain't  but  thirty  days, 
has  it?" 

" '  Thirty  days  hath  September,'  "  quoted 
Mrs.  Giles,  with  importance.  "That's  about 
all  1  Ve  got  left  o'  my  schoolin',  Miss  Flint. 
May  's  got  thirty-one  days,  sure  enough." 

"Call  it  the  thirty-fust,  then.  It's  nigh 
enough,  anyway.  Well,  Josh  Marden  an'  Lyddy 
Ann  Crane  was  married,  an'  for  nine  year  they 
lived  like  two  kittens.  Old  Sperry  Dyer,  that 
wanted  to  git  Lyddy  himself,  used  to  call  'em 
cup  an'  sasser.  'There  they  be,'  he'd  say, 
when  he  stood  outside  the  meetin'-house  dooi 
an'  they  drove  up ;  '  there  comes  cup  an' 
sasser.'  Lyddy  was  a  little  mite  of  a  thing, 
with  great  black  eyes ;  an'  if  Josh  hadn't  been 
as  tough  as  tripe,  he  'd  ha'  got  all  wore  out 
waitin'  on  her.  He  even  washed  the  potaters 


60  MEADOW-GRASS. 

for  her,  made  the  fires,  an'  lugged  water.  Scairt 
to  death  if  she  was  sick  !  She  used  to  have  sick 
headaches,  an'  one  day  he  stopped  choppin' 
pine  limbs  near  the  house  'cause  the  noise 
hurt  Lyddy  Ann's  head.  Another  time.  I  recol 
lect,  she  had  erysipelas  in  her  face,  an'  I  went 
in  to  carry  some  elder-blows,  an'  found  him 
readin'  the  Bible.  '  Lord  ! '  says  I, '  Josh,  that 's 
on'y  Genesis  !  'twon't  do  the  erysipelas  a  mite 
o'  good  for  you  to  be  settin'  there  readin'  the 
begats  !  You  better  turn  to  Revelation.'  But 
'twa'n't  all  on  his  side,  nuther.  'Tvvas  give 
an'  take  with  them.  It  used  to  seem  as  if 
Lyddy  Ann  kind  o'  worshipped  him.  '  Josh  ' 
we  all  called  him  ;  but  she  used  to  say  '  Joshuay,' 
an'  look  at  him  as  if  he  was  the  Lord  A'mighty." 

"My!  Sally!"  said  timid  Mrs.  Spenser, 
under  her  breath ;  but  Sally  gave  no  heed,  and 
swept  on  in  the  stream  of  her  recollections. 

"  Well,  it  went  on  for  fifteen  year,  an'  then 
'Mandy  Knowles,  Josh's  second  cousin,  come 
to  help  'em  with  the  work.  'Mandy  was  a 
queer  creatur'.  I  've  studied  a  good  deal  over 
her,  an'  I  dunno  's  I  've  quite  got  to  the  bottom 
of  her  yit.  She  was  one  o'  them  sort  o'  slow 
women,  with  a  fat  face,  an'  she  hadn't  got  over 
dressin'  young,  though  Lyddy  an'  the  rest  of  us 
that  was  over  thirty  was  wearin'  caps  an'  talkin' 
about  false  fronts.  But  she  never  'd  had  no 
beaux;  an'  when  Josh  begun  to  praise  her  an' 


TOLD   IN   THE   POORHOUSE.       61 

say  how  nice  'twas  to  have  her  there,  it  tickled 
her  e'en  a'most  to  death.  She  'd  lived  alone 
with  her  mother  an'  two  old- maid  aunts,  an' 
she  didn't  know  nothin'  about  men- folks ;  I 
al'ays  thought  she  felt  they  was  different  some 
how, —  kind  o'  cherubim  an'  seraphim,  —  an' 
you  'd  got  to  mind  'em  as  if  you  was  the  Chil- 
dern  of  Isr'el  an'  they  was  Moses.  Josh  never 
meant  a  mite  o'  harm,  I  '11  say  that  for  him. 
He  was  jest  man-like,  that's  all.  There's  lots 
o'  different  kinds,  —  here,  Mis'  Niles,  you  know  ; 
you  've  buried  your  third,  —  an'  Josh  was  the 
kind  that  can't  see  more  'n  one  woman  to  a 
time.  He  looked  at  'Mandy,  an'  he  got  over 
seein'  Lyddy  Ann,  that 's  all.  Things  would  ha' 
come  out  all  right  —  as  right  as  they  be  for 
most  married  folks  —  if  Lyddy  Ann  hadn't  been 
so  high-sperited ;  but  she  set  the  world  by 
Joshuay,  an'  there  'twas.  'Ain't  it  nice  to 
have  her  here?'  he  kep'  on  sayin'  over'n'  over 
to  Lyddy,  an'  she  'd  say  '  Yes  ; '  but  byme-by, 
when  she  found  he  was  al'ays  on  hand  to  bring 
a  pail  o'  water  for  'Mandy,  or  to  throw  away 
her  suds,  or  even  help  hang  out  the  clo'es  —  I 
see  'em  hangin'  out  clo'es  one  day  when  I  was 
goin'  across  their  lot  huckleberr'in',  an'  he  did 
look  like  a  great  gump,  an'  so  did  she  —  well, 
then,  Lyddy  Ann  got  to  seemin'  kind  o'  worried, 
an'  she  had  more  sick  headaches  than  ever. 
'Twa'n't  a  year  afore  that,  I  'd  been  in  one  day 


62  MEADOW-GRASS. 

when  she  had  a  headache,  an'  he  says,  as  if  he 
was  perfessin'  his  faith  in  meetin',  '  By  gum  !  I 
wish  I  could  have  them  headaches  for  her  ! '  an' 
I  thought  o'  speakin'  of  it,  about  now,  when  I 
run  in  to  borrer  some  saleratus,  an'  he  hollered 
into  the  bedroom :  '  Lyddy  Ann,  you  got 
another  headache?  If  I  had  such  a  head  as 
that,  I  'd  cut  it  off ! '  An'  all  the  time  'Mandy 
did  act  like  the  very  Old  Nick,  jest  as  any  old 
maid  would  that  hadn't  set  her  mind  on  men- 
folks  till  she  was  thirty-five.  She  bought  a  red- 
plaid  bow  an'  pinned  it  on  in  front,  an'  one  day 
I  ketched  her  at  the  lookin'-glass  pullin'  out  a 
gray  hair. 

"'Land,  'Mandy,'  says  I  (I  spoke  right  up), 
'do  you  pull  'em  out  as  fast  as  they  come? 
That 's  why  you  ain't  no  grayer,  I  s'pose.  I  was 
sayin'  the  other  day,  "  'Mandy  Knowles  is  gittin' 
on,  but  she  holds  her  own  pretty  well.  I  dunno 
how  she  manages  it,  whether  she  dyes  or  not,"  ' 
says  I. 

"  An'  afore  she  could  stop  herself,  'Mandy 
turned  round,  red  as  a  beet,  to  look  at  Josh  an' 
see  if  he  heard.  He  stamped  out  into  the 
wood-house,  but  Lyddy  Ann  never  took  her 
eyes  off  her  work.  Them  little  spiteful  things 
didn't  seem  to  make  no  impression  on  her. 
I  Ve  thought  a  good  many  times  sence,  she 
didn't  care  how  handsome  other  women  was, 
nor  how  scrawny  she  was  herself,  if  she  could 


TOLD    IN   THE   POORHOUSE.       63 

on'y  keep  Josh.  An'  Josh  he  got  kind  o'  fret 
ful  to  her,  an'  she  to  him,  an'  'Mandy  was  all 
honey  an'  cream.  Nothin'  would  do  but  she 
must  learn  how  to  make  the  gingerbread  he 
liked,  an'  iron  his  shirts ;  an'  when  Lyddy  Ann 
found  he  seemed  to  praise  things  up  jest  as 
much  as  he  had  when  she  done  'em,  she  give 
'em  up,  an'  done  the  hard  things  herself,  an'  let 
'Mandy  see  to  Josh.  She  looked  pretty  pindlin' 
then,  mark  my  words  ;  but  I  never  see  two  such 
eyes  in  anybody's  head.  I  s'pose  'twas  a 
change  for  Josh,  anyway,  to  be  with  a  woman 
like  'Mandy,  that  never  said  her  soul 's  her  own, 
for  Lyddy  'd  al'ays  had  a  quick  way  with  her ; 
but,  land  !  you  can't  tell  about  men,  what 
changes  'em  or  what  don't.  If  you  're  tied  to 
one,  you  've  jest  got  to  bear  with  him,  an'  be 
thankful  if  he  don't  run  some  kind  of  a  rig  an' 
make  you  town-talk." 

There  was  a  murmur  from  gentle  Lucy  Staples, 
who  had  been  constant  for  fifty  years  to  the 
lover  who  died  in  her  youth ;  but  no  one  took 
any  notice  of  her,  and  Sally  Flint  went  on  : 

"  It  come  spring,  an'  somehow  or  nuther 
'Mandy  found  out  the  last  o'  March  was  Josh's 
birthday,  an'  nothin'  would  do  but  she  must 
make  him  a  present.  So  she  walked  over  to 
Sudleigh,  an'  bought  him  a  great  long  pocket- 
book  that  you  could  put  your  bills  into  without 
foldin'  'em,  an'  brought  it  home,  tickled  to  death 


64  MEADOW-GRASS. 

because  she'd  been  so  smart.  Some  o'  this 
come  out  at  the  time,  an'  some  wa'n't  known 
till  artenvards ;  the  hired  man  told  some,  an'  a 
good  deal  the  neighbors  see  themselves.  An' 
I  '11  be  whipped  if  'Mandy  herself  didn't  tell 
the  heft  on  't  arter  'twas  all  over.  She  wa'n't 
more  'n  half  baked  in  a  good  many  things.  It 
got  round  somehow  that  the  pocket-book  was 
comin',  an'  when  I  see  'Mandy  walkin'  home 
that  arternoon,  I  ketched  up  my  shawl  an'  run 
in  behind  her,  to  borrer  some  yeast.  Nobody 
thought  anything  o'  birthdays  in  our  neighbor 
hood,  an'  mebbe  that  made  it  seem  a  good  deal 
more  'n  'twas ;  but  when  I  got  in  there,  I  vow 
I  was  sorry  I  come.  There  set  Josh  by  the 
kitchen  table,  sort  o'  red  an'  pleased,  with  his 
old  pocket-book  open  afore  him,  an'  he  was 
puttin'  all  his  bills  an'  papers  into  the  new  one, 
an'  sayin',  every  other  word,  — 

"  '  Why,  'Mandy,  I  never  see  your  beat !  Ain't 
this  a  nice  one,  Lyddy?' 

"An1  'Mandy  was  b'ilin'  over  with  pride,  an' 
she  stood  there  takin'  off  her  cloud  ;  she  'd  been 
in  such  a  hurry  to  give  it  to  him  she  hadn't 
even  got  her  things  off  fust.  Lyddy  stood  by 
the  cupboard,  lookin'  straight  at  the  glass  spoon- 
holder.  I  thought  arterwards  I  didn't  b'lieve 
she  see  it ;  an'  if  she  did,  I  guess  she  never 
forgot  it. 

"  '  Yes,  it 's  a  real  nice  one,'  says  I. 


TOLD   IN   THE  POORHOUSE.       65 

"  I  had  to  say  suthin',  but  in  a  minute,  I  was 
most  scairt.  Lyddy  turned  round,  in  a  kind  of 
a  flash ;  her  face  blazed  all  over  red,  an'  her 
eyes  kind  o'  went  through  me.  She  stepped 
up  to  the  table,  an'  took  up  the  old  pocket- 
book. 

"  '  You  've  got  a  new  one,'  says  she.  '  May  I 
have  this? ' 

"  '  Course  you  may,'  says  he. 

"  He  didn't  look  up  to  see  her  face,  an'  her 
voice  was  so  soft  an'  still,  I  guess  he  never 
thought  nothin'  of  it.  Then  she  held  the  pocket- 
book  up  tight  ag'inst  her  dress  waist  an'  walked 
off  into  the  bedroom.  I  al'ays  thought  she 
never  knew  I  was  there.  An'  arterwards  it  come 
out  that  that  old  pocket-book  was  one  she  'd 
bought  for  him  afore  they  was  married,  —  earned 
it  bindin'  shoes." 

"'Tzvas  kind  o'  hard,"  owned  Mrs.  Niles, 
bending  forward,  and,  with  hands  clasped  over 
her  knees,  peering  into  the  coals  for  data 
regarding  her  own  marital  experiences.  "  But 
if  'twas  all  wore  out  —  did  you  say  'twas  wore? 
—  well,  then  I  dunno  's  you  could  expect  him 
to  set  by  it.  An'  'twa'n't  as  if  he  'd  give  it 
away  ;  they  'd  got  it  between  'em." 

"  I  dunno  ;  it 's  all  dark  to  me,"  owned  Sally 
Flint.  "  I  guess  'twould  puzzle  a  saint  to  ex 
plain  men-folks,  anyway,  but  I  Ve  al'ays  thought 
they  was  sort  o'  numb  about  some  things. 
5 


66  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Anyway,  Josh  Marden  was.  Well,  things  went 
on  that  way  till  the  fust  part  o'  the  summer,  an' 
then  they  come  to  a  turnin'-p'int.  I  s'pose 
they  'd  got  to,  some  time,  an'  it  might  jest  as 
well  ha'  been  fust  as  last.  Lyddy  Ann  was 
pretty  miserable,  an'  she  'd  been  dosin'  with 
thoroughwort  an'  what  all  when  anybody  told 
her  to  ;  but  I  al'ays  thought  she  never  cared  a 
mite  whether  she  lived  to  see  another  spring. 
The  day  I  'm  comin'  to,  she  was  standin'  over 
the  fire  fryin'  fish,  an'  'Mandy  was  sort  o'  fiddlin' 
round,  settin'  the  table,  an'  not  doin'  much  of 
anything  arter  all.  I  dunno  how  she  come  to 
be  so  aggravating  for  she  was  al'ays  ready  to  do 
her  part,  if  she  had  come  between  husband  an' 
wife.  You  know  how  hard  it  is  to  git  a  fish 
dinner  !  Well,  Lyddy  Ann  was  tired  enough, 
anyway.  An'  when  Josh  come  in,  'Mandy  she 
took  a  cinnamon-rose  out  of  her  dress,  an' 
offered  it  to  him. 

"  '  Here  's  a  flower  for  your  button-hole,'  says 
she,  as  if  she  wa'n't  more  'n  sixteen.  An'  then 
she  set  down  in  a  chair,  an'  fanned  herself  with 
a  newspaper. 

"  Now  that  chair  happened  to  be  Lyddy 
Ann's  at  the  table,  an'  she  see  what  was  bein' 
done.  She  turned  right  round,  with  the  fish- 
platter  in  her  hand,  an'  says  she,  in  an  awful 
kind  of  a  voice,  — 

"  '  You  git  up  out  o'  my  chair  !    You  've  took 


TOLD   IN   THE   POORHOUSE.       67 

my  husband  away,  but  you  sha'n't  take  my 
place  at  the  table  ! ' 

"  The  hired  man  was  there,  washin'  his  hands 
at  the  sink,  an'  he  told  it  to  me  jest  as  it  hap 
pened.  Well,  I  guess  they  all  thought  they  was 
struck  by  lightnin',  an'  Lyddy  Ann  most  of  all. 
Josh  he  come  to,  fust.  He  walked  over  to 
Lyddy  Ann. 

"  '  You  put  down  that  platter  !  '  says  he.  An' 
she  begun  to  tremble,  an'  set  it  down. 

"  I  guess  they  thought  there  was  goin'  to  be 
murder  done,  for  'Mandy  busted  right  out  cryin' 
an'  come  runnin'  over  to  me,  an'  the  hired  man 
took  a  step  an'  stood  side  o'  Lyddy  Ann.  He 
was  a  little  mite  of  a  man,  Cyrus  was,  but  he 
wouldn't  ha'  stood  no  violence. 

"Josh  opened  the  door  that  went  into  the 
front  entry,  an'  jest  p'inted.  'You  walk  in 
there,'  he  says,  '  an'  you  stay  there.  That 's 
your  half  o'  the  house,  an'  this  is  mine.  Don't 
you  dast  to  darken  my  doors  ! ' 

"Lyddy  Ann  she  walked  through  the  entry 
an'  into  the  fore-room,  an'  he  shet  the  door." 

"I  wouldn't  ha'  done  it  !  "  snorted  old  Mrs. 
Page,  who  had  spent  all  her  property  in  law 
suits  over  a  right  of  way.  "  Ketch  me  !  " 

"  You  would  if  you  'd  'a'  been  Lyddy  Ann  !  " 
said  Sally  Flint,  with  an  emphatic  nod.  Then 
she  continued :  "  I  hadn't  more  'n  heard 
'Mandy's  story  afore  I  was  over  there  ;  but  jest 


68  MEADOW-GRASS. 

as  I  put  my  foot  on  the  door-sill,  Josh  he  come 
for'ard  to  meet  me. 

"  '  What 's  wanted  ?  '  says  he.  An'  I  declare 
for  't  I  was  so  scairt  I  jest  turned  round  an'  cut 
for  home.  An'  there  set  'Mandy,  wringin'  her 
hands. 

"  '  What  be  I  goin'  to  do? '  says  she,  over  'n' 
over.  'Who  ever 'd  ha'  thought  o'  this?' 

" '  The  thing  for  you  to  do,'  says  I,  '  is  to  go 
straight  home  to  your  mother,  an'  I  '11  harness 
up  an'  carry  you.  Don't  you  step  your  foot 
inside  that  house  ag'in.  Maybe  ma'am  will  go 
over  an'  pack  up  your  things.  You  've  made 
mischief  enough.'  So  we  got  her  off  that  arter- 
noon,  an'  that  was  an  end  of  her. 

"  I  never  could  see  what  made  Josh  think  so 
quick  that  day.  We  never  thought  he  was 
brighter  'n  common  ;  but  jest  see  how  in  that 
flash  o'  bein'  mad  with  Lyddy  Ann  he  'd  planned 
out  what  would  be  most  wormwood  for  her  ! 
He  gi'n  her  the  half  o'  the  house  she  'd  fur 
nished  herself  with  hair-cloth  chairs  an'  a  what 
not,  but  'twa'n't  the  part  that  was  fit  to  be 
lived  in.  She  stayed  pretty  close  for  three  or 
four  days,  an'  I  guess  she  never  had  nothin'  to 
eat.  It  made  me  kind  o'  sick  to  think  of  her 
in  there  settin'  on  her  hair-cloth  sofy,  an'  lookin' 
at  her  wax  flowers  an'  the  coral  on  the  what-not, 
an'  thinkin'  what  end  she  'd  made.  It  was  of 
a  Monday  she  was  sent  in  there,  an'  Tuesday 


TOLD    IN   THE    POORHOUSE.       69 

night  I  slipped  over  an'  put  some  luncheon  on 
the  winder-sill ;  but  'twas  there  the  next  day, 
an'  Cyrus  see  the  old  crower  fly  up  an'  git  it. 
An'  that  same  Tuesday  mornin',  Josh  had  a  j'iner 
come  an'  begin  a  partition  right  straight  through 
the  house.  It  was  all  rough  boards,  like  a  high 
fence,  an'  it  cut  the  front  entry  in  two,  an'  went 
right  through  the  kitchen  —  so  't  the  kitchen 
stove  was  one  side  on  't,  an'  the  sink  the  other. 
Lyddy  Ann's  side  had  the  stove.  I  was  glad  o' 
that,  though  I  s'pose  she  'most  had  a  fit  every 
day  to  think  o'  him  tryin'  to  cook  over  the  air 
tight  in  the  settin'-room.  Seemed  kind  o'  queer 
to  go  to  the  front  door,  too,  for  you  had  to 
open  it  wide  an'  squeeze  round  the  partition  to 
git  into  Lyddy  Ann's  part,  an'  a  little  mite  of  a 
crack  would  let  you  into  Josh's.  But  they  didn't 
have  many  callers.  It  was  a  good  long  while 
afore  anybody  dared  to  say  a  word  to  her ;  an' 
as  for  Josh,  there  wa'n't  nobody  that  cared  about 
seein'  him  but  the  tax-collector  an'  pedlers. 

"  Well,  the  trouble  Josh  took  to  carry  out  that 
mad  fit !  He  split  wood  an'  laid  it  down  at 
Lyddy  Ann's  door,  an'  he  divided  the  eggs  an' 
milk,  an'  shoved  her  half  inside.  He  bought 
her  a  separate  barrel  o'  flour,  an'  all  the  gro 
ceries  he  could  think  on ;  they  said  he  laid 
money  on  her  winder-sill.  But,  take  it  all 
together,  he  was  so  busy  actin'  like  a  crazed 
one  that  he  never  got  his  'taters  dug  till  'most 


7o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

time  for  the  frost.  Lyddy  Ann  she  never 
showed  her  head  among  the  neighbors  ag'in. 
When  she  see  she  'd  got  to  stay  there,  she  begun 
to  cook  for  herself;  but  one  day,  one  o'  the 
neighbors  heard  her  pleadin'  with  Josh,  out  in 
the  cow-yard,  while  he  was  milkin'. 

"  '  O  Joshuay,'  she  kep'  a-sayin'  over  'n'  over, 
'  you  needn't  take  me  back,  if  you  '11  on'y  let 
me  do  your  work  !  You  needn't  speak  to  me, 
an'  I'll  live  in  the  other  part;  but  I  shall  be 
crazy  if  you  don't  let  me  do  your  work.  O 
Joshuay  !  O  Joshuay  ! '  She  cried  an'  cried  as 
if  her  heart  would  break,  but  Josh  went  on 
milkin',  an'  never  said  a  word. 

"  I  s'pose  she  thought  he  'd  let  her,  the  old 
hunks,  for  the  next  day,  she  baked  some  pies 
an'  set  'em  on  the  table  in  his  part.  She  reached 
in  through  the  winder  to  do  it.  But  that  night, 
when  Josh  come  home,  he  hove  'em  all  out  into 
the  back  yard,  an'  the  biddies  eat  'em  up.  The 
last  time  I  was  there,  I  see  them  very  pieces  o' 
pie-plate,  white  an'  blue-edged,  under  the  sy- 
ringa  bush.  Then  she  kind  o'  give  up  hope.  I 
guess  —  But  no  !  I  'm  gittin'  ahead  o'  my 
story.  She  did  try  him  once  more.  Of  course 
his  rooms  got  to  lookin'  like  a  hog's  nest  —  " 

"  My  I  I  guess  when  she  see  him  doin'  his 
own  washin',  she  thought  the  pocket-book  was 
a  small  affair,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Niles. 

"  She  used  to  go  round  peerin'  into  his  winders 


TOLD    IN    THE    POORHOUSE.       71 

when  he  wa'n't  there,  an'  one  day,  arter  he  'd 
gone  off  to  trade  some  steers,  she  jest  spunked 
up  courage  an'  went  in  an'  cleaned  all  up.  I 
see  the  bed  airin',  an'  went  over  an'  ketched 
her  at  it.  She  hadn't  more  'n  got  through  an' 
stepped  outside  when  Josh  come  home,  an' 
what  should  he  do  but  take  the  wheelbarrer 
an',  beat  out  as  he  was  drivin'  oxen  five  mile, 
go  down  to  the  gravel-pit  an'  get  a  barrerful  o' 
gravel.  He  wheeled  it  up  to  the  side  door,  an' 
put  a  plank  over  the  steps,  an"  wheeled  it  right 
in.  An'  then  he  dumped  it  in  the  middle  o' 
his  clean  floor.  That  was  the  last  o'  her  tryin' 
to  do  for  him  on  the  sly. 

"  I  should  ha'  had  some  patience  with  him  if 
'twa'n't  for  one  thing  he  done  to  spite  her. 
Seemed  as  if  he  meant  to  shame  her  that  way 
afore  the  whole  neighborhood.  He  wouldn't 
speak  to  her  himself,  but  he  sent  a  painter  by 
trade  to  tell  her  he  was  goin'  to  paint  the  house, 
an'  to  ask  her  what  color  she  'd  ruther  have. 
The  painter  said  she  acted  sort  o'  wild,  she  was 
so  pleased.  She  told  him  yaller ;  an'  Josh  had 
him  go  right  to  work  on 't  next  day.  But 
he  had  her  half  painted  yaller,  an'  his  a  kind  of 
a  drab,  I  guess  you  'd  call  it.  He  sold  a  piece 
o'  ma'sh  to  pay  for 't.  Dr.  Parks  said  you 
might  as  well  kill  a  woman  with  a  hatchet,  as 
the  man  did  down  to  Sudleigh,  as  put  her  through 
such  treatment.  My  !  ain't  it  growin'  late  ? 


72  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Here,  let  me  set  back  by  the  winder.  I  want 
to  see  who  goes  by,  to-day.  An'  I  '11  cut  my 
story  short. 

"  Well,  they  lived  jest  that  way.  Lyddy  Ann 
she  looked  like  an  old  woman,  in  a  month  or 
two.  She  looked  every  minute  as  old  as  you  do, 
Mis'  Gridley.  Ain't  you  sixty-nine?  Well,  she 
wa'n't  but  thirty-six.  Her  hair  turned  gray,  an' 
she  was  all  stooped  over.  Sometimes  I  thought 
she  wa'n't  jest  right.  I  used  to  go  in  to  see 
if  she  'd  go  coltsfootin'  with  me,  or  plummin' ; 
but  she  never  'd  make  me  no  answer.  I  rec 
ollect  two  things  she  said.  One  day,  she  set 
rockin'  back'ards  an'  for'ards  in  a  straight 
chair,  holdin'  her  hands  round  her  knees,  an' 
she  says,  — 

"  '  I  'ain't  got  no  pride,  Sally  Flint !  I  'ain't 
got  no  pride  ! ' 

"  An'  once  she  looked  up  kind  o'  pitiful  an* 
says,  'Ain't  it  queer  I  can't  die?'  But,  poor 
creatur',  I  never  thought  she  knew  what  she  was 
sayin'.  She  'd  ha'  been  the  last  one  to  own  she 
wa'n't  contented  if  she  'd  had  any  gover'ment 
over  her  words. 

"  Well,  Josh  he  'd  turned  the  hired  man  away 
because  he  couldn't  do  for  him  over  the  air 
tight  stove,  an'  he  got  men  to  help  him  by  days' 
works.  An'  through  the  winter,  he  jest  set  over 
the  fire  an'  sucked  his  claws,  an'  thought  how 
smart  he  was.  But  one  day  'twas  awful  cold, 


TOLD    IN   THE   POORHOUSE.       73 

an'  \ve  'd  been  tryin'  out  lard,  an'  the  fat  ketched 
fire,  an'  everything  was  all  up  in  arms,  anyway. 
Cyrus  he  was  goin'  by  Josh's,  an'  he  didn't  see 
no  smoke  from  the  settin'-room  stove.  So  he 
jest  went  to  the  side  door  an'  walked  in,  an' 
there  set  Josh  in  the  middle  o'  the  room. 
Couldn't  move  hand  nor  foot  !  Cyrus  didn't 
stop  for  no  words,  but  he  run  over  to  our  house, 
hollerin',  '  Josh  Marden  's  got  a  stroke  ! '  An' 
ma'am  left  the  stove  all  over  fat  an'  run,  an'  I 
arter  her.  I  guess  Lyddy  Ann  must  ha'  seen 
us  comin',  for  we  hadn't  more  'n  got  into  the 
settin'-room  afore  she  was  there.  The  place 
was  cold  as  a  barn,  an'  it  looked  like  a  hurrah's 
nest.  Josh  never  moved,  but  his  eyes  follered 
her  when  she  went  into  the  bedroom  to  spread 
up  the  bed. 

" '  You  help  me,  Cyrus,'  says  she,  kind  o' 
twittery-like,  but  calm.  '  We  '11  carry  him  in 
here.  I  can  lift.' 

"  But  our  men-folks  got  there  jest  about  as 
they  was  tryin'  to  plan  how  to  take  him,  an'  they 
h'isted  him  onto  the  bed.  Cyrus  harnessed 
up  our  horse  an'  went  after  Dr.  Parks,  an'  by 
the  time  he  come,  we  'd  got  the  room  so  's  to 
look  decent.  An'  —  if  you  '11  b'lieve  it !  — 
Lyddy  Ann  was  in  the  bedroom  tryin'  to  warm 
Josh  up  an'  make  him  take  some  hot  drink  ;  but 
when  I  begun  to  sweep  up,  an'  swop  towards 
that  gravel-pile  in  the  middle  o'  the  floor,  she 


74  MEADOW-GRASS. 

come  hurryin'  up,  all  out  o'  breath.  She  ketched 
the  broom  right  out  o'  my  hand. 

"'I'll  sweep,  byme-by,'  says  she.  'Don't 
you  touch  that  gravel,  none  on  ye  ! '  An'  so 
the  gravel  laid  there,  an'  we  walked  round  it, 
watchers  an'  all. 

"  She  wouldn't  have  no  watcher  in  his  bed 
room,  though  ;  she  was  determined  to  do  every 
thing  but  turn  him  an'  lift  him  herself,  but 
there  was  al'ays  one  or  two  settin'  round  to 
keep  the  fires  goin'  an'  make  sure  there  was 
enough  cooked  up.  I  swan,  I  never  see  a 
woman  so  happy  round  a  bed  o'  sickness  as 
Lyddy  Ann  was  !  She  never  made  no  fuss  when 
Josh  was  awake,  but  if  he  shet  his  eyes,  she  'd 
kind  o'  hang  over  the  bed  an'  smooth  the 
clo'es  as  if  they  was  kittens,  an'  once  I  ketched 
her  huggin'  up  the  sleeve  of  his  old  barn  coat 
that  hung  outside  the  door.  If  ever  a  woman 
made  a  fool  of  herself  over  a  man  that  wa'n't 
wuth  it,  'twas  Lyddy  Ann  Harden  ! 

"Well,  Josh  he  hung  on  for  a  good  while, 
an'  we  couldn't  make  out  whether  he  had  his 
senses  or  not.  He  kep'  his  eyes  shet  most  o' 
the  time ;  but  when  Lyddy  Ann's  back  was 
turned,  he  seemed  to  know  it  somehow,  an' 
he  'd  open  'em  an'  foller  her  all  round  the 
room.  But  he  never  spoke.  I  asked  the  doc 
tor  about  it. 

"'Can't  he  speak,  doctor?'    says  I.      'He 


TOLD    IN    THE    POORHOUSE.       75 

can  move  that  hand  a  leetle  to-day.  Don't  you 
s'pose  he  could  speak,  if  he  'd  a  mind  to?  ' 

"The  doctor  he  squinted  up  his  eyes  —  he 
al'ays  done  that  when  he  didn't  want  to  answer 
—  an'  he  says,  — 

"  '  I  guess  he  's  thinkin'  on  't  over.' 

"  But  one  day,  Lyddy  Ann  found  she  was  all 
beat  out,  an'  she  laid  down  in  the  best  bedroom 
an'  went  to  sleep.  I  set  with  Josh.  I  was 
narrerin'  off,  but  when  I  looked  up,  he  was 
beckonin'  with  his  well  hand.  I  got  up,  an'  went 
to  the  bed. 

"'Be  you  dry?'  says  I.  He  made  a  little 
motion,  an'  then  he  lifted  his  hand  an'  p'inted 
out  into  the  settin'-room. 

"  Do  you  want  Lyddy  Ann?  '  says  I.  'She's 
laid  down.'  No,  he  didn't  want  her.  I  went 
to  the  settin'-room  door  an'  looked  out,  an'  — 
I  dunno  how  'twas  —  it  all  come  to  me. 

"'Is  it  that  gravel-heap?'  says  I.  'Do  you 
want  it  carried  off,  an'  the  floor  swop  up  ?  '  An' 
he  made  a  motion  to  say  '  Yes.'  I  called  Cyrus, 
an'  we  made  short  work  o'  that  gravel.  When 
I  'd  took  up  the  last  mite  on  't,  I  went  back  to 
the  bed. 

" '  Josh  Marden,'  says  I,  '  can  you  speak,  or 
can't  you?'  But  he  shet  his  eyes,  an'  wouldn't 
say  a  word. 

"When  Lyddy  Ann  come  out,  I  told  her 
what  he  'd  done,  an'  then  she  did  give  way  a 


76  MEADOW-GRASS. 

little  mite.  Two  tears  come  out  o'  her  eyes, 
an'  jest  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  but  she  didn't 
give  up  to  'em. 

" '  Sally,'  says  she,  sort  o'  peaceful,  '  I  guess 
I  '11  have  a  cup  o'  tea.' 

"Well,  there  was  times  when  we  thought 
Josh  would  git  round  ag'in,  if  he  didn't  have 
another  stroke.  I  dunno  whether  he  did  have 
another  or  not,  but  one  night,  he  seemed  to  be 
sort  o'  sinkin'  away.  Lyddy  Ann  she  begun  to 
turn  white,  an'  she  set  down  by  him  an'  rubbed 
his  sick  hand.  He  looked  at  her,  —  fust  time 
he  had,  fair  an'  square,  —  an'  then  he  begun  to 
wobble  his  lips  round  an'  make  a  queer  noise 
with  'em.  She  put  her  head  down,  an'  then 
she  says,  '  Yes,  Joshuay  !  yes,  dear  ! '  An'  she 
got  up  an'  took  the  pocket-book  'Mandy  had 
gi'n  him  off  the  top  o'  the  bureau,  an'  laid  it 
down  on  the  bed  where  he  could  git  it.  But  he 
shook  his  head,  an"  said  the  word  ag'in,  an'  a 
queer  look  —  as  if  she  was  scairt  an'  pleased  — 
flashed  over  Lyddy  Ann's  face.  She  run  into 
the  parlor,  an'  come  back  with  that  old  pocket- 
book  he  'd  give  up  to  her,  an'  she  put  it  into 
his  well  hand.  That  was  what  he  wanted.  His 
fingers  gripped  it  up,  an'  he  shet  his  eyes.  He 
never  spoke  ag'in.  He  died  that  night." 

"  I  guess  she  died,  too  !  "  said  Lucy  Staples, 
under  her  breath,  stealthily  wiping  a  tear  from 
her  faded  cheek. 


TOLD    IN   THE  POORHOUSE.       77 

"  No,  she  didn't,  either ! "  retorted  Sally 
Flint,  hastily,  getting  up  to  peer  from  the  win 
dow  down  the  country  road.  "  She  lived  a  good 
many  year,  right  in  that  very  room  he  'd  drove 
her  out  on,  an'  she  looked  as  if  she  owned  the 
airth.  1  Ve  studied  on  it  consid'able,  an'  I 
al'ays  s'posed  'twas  because  she  'd  got  him,  an' 
that  was  all  she  cared  for.  There  's  the  hearse 
now,  an'  two  carriages,  step  an'  step." 

"Land!  who's  dead?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Forbes,  getting  up  in  haste,  while  her  ball  rolled 
unhindered  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  It 's  Lyddy  Ann  Harden,"  returned  Sally 
Flint,  with  the  triumphant  quiet  of  one  first 
at  the  goal.  "  I  see  it  this  mornin'  in  the 
'  County  Democrat,'  when  I  was  doin'  up  my 
wrist,  an'  you  was  all  so  busy." 


HEMAN'S   MA. 

TT  was  half-past  nine  of  a  radiant  winter's 
•*•  night,  and  the  Widder  Poll's  tooth  still 
ached,  though  she  was  chewing  cloves,  and  had 
applied  a  cracker  poultice  to  her  cheek.  She 
was  walking  back  and  forth  through  the  great 
low-studded  kitchen,  where  uncouth  shadows 
lurked  and  brooded,  still  showing  themselves 
ready  to  leap  aloft  with  any  slightest  motion  of 
the  flames  that  lived  behind  the  old  black  fire- 
dogs.  At  every  trip  across  the  room,  she 
stopped  to  look  from  the  window  into  the 
silver  paradise  without,  and  at  every  glance 
she  groaned,  as  if  groaning  were  a  duty.  The 
kitchen  was  unlighted  save  by  the  fire  and  one 
guttering  candle ;  but  even  through  such  inade 
quate  illumination  the  Widder  Poll  was  a  figure 
calculated  to  stir  rich  merriment  in  a  satirical 
mind.  Her  contour  was  rather  square  than 
oblong,  and  she  was  very  heavy.  In  fact,  she 
had  begun  to  announce  that  her  ankles  wouldn't 
bear  her  much  longer,  and  she  should  "  see  the 
day  when  she  'd  have  to  set  by,  from  mornin' 
to  night,  like  old  Anrutty  Green  that  had  the 


HEMAN'S   MA.  79 

dropsy  so  many  years  afore  she  was  laid  away." 
Her  face,  also,  was  cut  upon  the  broadest  pat 
tern  in  common  use,  and  her  small,  dull  eyes 
and  closely  shut  mouth  gave  token  of  that  firm 
ness  which,  save  in  ourselves,  we  call  obstinacy. 
To-night,  however,  her  features  were  devoid  of 
even  their  wonted  dignity,  compressed,  as  they 
had  been,  by  the  bandage  encircling  her  face. 
She  looked  like  a  caricature  of  her  unprepossess 
ing  self.  On  one  of  her  uneasy  journeys  to 
the  window,  she  caught  the  sound  of  sleigh- 
bells  ;  and  staying  only  to  assure  herself  of 
their  familiar  ring,  she  hastily  closed  the  shutter, 
and,  going  back  to  the  fireplace,  sank  into  a 
chair  there,  and  huddled  over  the  blaze.  The 
sleigh  drove  slowly  into  the  yard,  and  after  the 
necessary  delay  of  unharnessing,  a  man  pushed 
open  the  side  door,  and  entered  the  kitchen. 
He,  too,  was  short  and  square  of  build,  though 
he  had  no  superfluous  flesh.  His  ankles  would 
doubtless  continue  to  bear  him  for  many  a  year 
to  come.  His  face  was  but  slightly  accented  ; 
he  had  very  thin  eyebrows,  light  hair,  and  only 
a  shaggy  fringe  of  whisker  beneath  the  chin. 
This  was  Heman  Blaisdell,  the  Widder  Poll's 
brother-in-law,  for  whom  she  had  persistently 
kept  house  ever  since  the  death  of  his  wife,  four 
years  ago.  He  came  in  without  speaking,  and 
after  shaking  himself  out  of  his  great-coat,  sat 
silently  down  in  his  armchair  by  the  fire.  The 


8o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Widder  Poll  held  both  hands  to  her  face,  and 
groaned  again.  At  length,  curiosity  overcame 
her,  and,  quite  against  her  judgment,  she  spoke. 
She  was  always  resolving  that  she  would  never 
again  take  the  initiative  ;  but  every  time  her 
resolution  went  down  before  the  certainty  that 
if  she  did  not  talk,  there  would  be  no  conversa 
tion  at  all,  —  for  Heman  had  a  staying  power 
that  was  positively  amazing. 

"Well?"  she  began,  interrogatively. 

Heman  only  stirred  slightly  in  his  chair. 

"  Well !  ain't  you  goin'  to  tell  me  what  went 
on  at  the  meetin'?" 

Her  quarry  answered  patiently,  yet  with  a  cer 
tain  dogged  resistance  of  her,  — 

"  I  dunno  's  there  's  anything  to  tell." 

"  How  'd  it  go  off?  " 

"  'Bout  as  usual." 

"  Did  you  speak?  " 

"  No." 

"  Lead  in  prayer?  " 

"No." 

"Wa'n't  you  asked?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  my  soul !     Was  Roxy  Cole  there?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Did  you  fetch  her  home  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't !  "  Some  mild  exasperation 
animated  his  tone  at  last.  The  Widder  detected 
it,  and  occupied  herself  with  her  tooth. 


HEM  AN 'S   MA.  81 

"  My  soul  an'  body  !  I  wonder  if  it 's  goin' 
to  grumble  all  night  long !  "  she  exclaimed, 
bending  lower  over  the  blaze.  "  I  've  tried 
everything  but  a  roasted  raisin,  an'  I  b'lieve  I 
shall  come  to  that." 

Heman  rose,  and  opened  the  clock  on  the 
mantel ;  he  drew  forth  the  key  from  under  the 
pendulum,  and  slowly  wound  up  the  time-worn 
machinery.  In  another  instant,  he  would  be  on 
his  way  to  bed ;  the  Widder  knew  she  must 
waste  no  time  in  hurt  silence,  if  she  meant  to 
find  out  anything.  She  began  hastily,  — 

"  Did  they  say  anything  about  the  church 
fair?" 

"  They  ain't  goin'  to  have  it." 

"  Not  have  it !  Well,  how  be  they  goin'  to 
git  the  shinglin'  paid  for?" 

"  They  've  got  up  the  idee  of  an  Old  Folks' 
Concert." 

"  Singin'  ?  " 

"  Singin'  an'  playin'." 

"  Who  's  goin'  to  play?  " 

"  Brad  Freeman  an'  Jont  Marshall  agreed  to 
play  fust  an'  second  fiddle."  Heman  paused  a 
moment,  and  straightened  himself  with  an  air  of 
conscious  pride  ;  then  he  added,  — 

"They  've  asked  me  to  play  the  bass-viol." 

The  Widder  had  no  special  objections  to  this 
arrangement,  but  it  did  strike  her  as  an  innova 
tion  ;  and  when  she  had  no  other  reason  for 
6 


82  MEADOW-GRASS. 

disapproval,  she  still  believed  in  it  on  general 
principles.  So  altogether  effective  a  weapon 
should  never  rust  from  infrequent  use  ! 

"  Well !  "  she  announced.  "  I  never  heard 
of  such  carryin's-on,  —  never!" 

Heman  was  lighting  a  small  kerosene  lamp. 
The  little  circle  of  light  seemed  even  brilliant 
in  the  dusky  room ;  it  affected  him  with  a  relief 
so  sudden  and  manifest  as  to  rouse  also  a  tem 
porary  irritation  at  having  endured  the  previous 
gloom  even  for  a  moment. 

"'Ain't  you  got  no  oil  in  the  house?"  he 
exclaimed,  testily.  "  I  wish  you  'd  light  up, 
evenin's,  an'  not  set  here  by  one  taller  candle  !  " 

He  had  ventured  on  this  remonstrance  before, 
the  only  one  he  permitted  himself  against  his 
housekeeper's  ways,  and  at  the  instant  of  mak 
ing  it,  he  realized  its  futility. 

"The  gre't  lamp  's  all  full,"  said  the  Widder, 
warming  her  apron  and  pressing  it  to  her  poul 
ticed  face.  "  You  can  light  it,  if  you  've  got  the 
heart  to.  That  was  poor  Mary's  lamp,  an'  hard 
as  I  Ve  tried,  I  never  could  bring  myself  to  put 
a  match  to  that  wick.  How  many  evenin's 
I  Ve  seen  her  set  by  it,  rockin'  back'ards  an' 
for'ards,  —  an'  her  needle  goin'  in  an'  out !  She 
was  a  worker,  if  ever  there  was  one,  poor  crea- 
tur'  !  At  it  all  the  time,  jes'  like  a  silk-worm." 

Heman  was  perfectly  familiar  with  this  ex 
planation  ;  from  long  repetition,  he  had  it  quite 


HEMAN'S   MA.  83 

by  heart.  Possibly  that  was  why  he  did  not 
wait  for  its  conclusion,  but  tramped  stolidly 
away  to  his  bedroom,  where  he  had  begun  to 
kick  off  his  shoes  by  the  time  his  sister-in-law 
reached  a  period. 

The  Widder  had  a  fresh  poultice  waiting  by  the 
fire.  She  applied  it  to  her  cheek,  did  up  her 
face  in  an  old  flannel  petticoat,  and  then,  hav 
ing  covered  the  fire,  toiled  up  to  bed.  It  was 
a  wearisome  journey,  for  she  carried  a  heavy 
soapstone  which  showed  a  tendency  to  conflict 
with  the  candle,  and  she  found  it  necessary  to 
hold  together  most  of  her  garments ;  these  she 
had  "  loosened  a  mite  by  the  fire,"  according  to 
custom  on  cold  nights,  after  Heman  had  left 
her  the  field. 

Next  day,  Heman  went  away  into  the  woods 
chopping,  and  carried  his  dinner  of  doughnuts 
and  cheese,  with  a  chunk  of  bean-porridge  frozen 
into  a  ball,  to  be  thawed  out  by  his  noontime 
fire.  He  returned  much  earlier  than  usual,  and 
the  Widder  was  at  the  window  awaiting  him. 
The  swelling  in  her  cheek  had  somewhat  sub 
sided  ;  and  the  bandage,  no  longer  distended  by 
a  poultice  beneath,  seemed,  in  comparison,  a 
species  of  holiday  device.  She  was  very  impa 
tient.  She  watched  Heman,  as  he  went  first  to 
the  barn  ;  and  even  opened  the  back  door  a 
crack  to  listen  for  the  rattling  of  chains,  the 
signal  of  feeding  or  watering. 


84  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"What 's  he  want  to  do  that  now  for?"  she 
muttered,  closing  the  door  again,  as  the  cold 
struck  her  cheek.  "  He  '11  have  to  feed  'em 
ag'in,  come  night !  " 

But  at  last  he  came,  and,  according  to  his 
silent  wont,  crossed  the  kitchen  to  the  sink,  to 
wash  his  hands.  He  was  an  unobservant  man, 
and  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  Widder  had 
on  her  Tycoon  rep,  the  gown  she  kept  "  for 
nice."  Indeed,  he  was  so  unused  to  looking  at 
her  that  he  might  well  have  forgotten  her  out 
ward  appearance.  He  was  only  sure  of  her 
size  ;  he  knew  she  cut  off  a  good  deal  of  light. 
One  sign,  however,  he  did  recognize  ;  she  was 
very  cheerful,  with  a  hollow  good-nature  which 
had  its  meaning. 

"  I  got  your  shavin'-water  all  ready,"  she 
began.  "  Don't  you  burn  ye  when  ye  turn  it 
out." 

It  had  once  been  said  of  the  Widder  Poll 
that  if  she  could  hold  her  tongue,  the  devil  him 
self  couldn't  get  ahead  of  her.  But  fortune 
had  not  gifted  her  with  such  endurance,  and 
she  always  spoke  too  often  and  too  soon. 

"  Brad  Freeman 's  been  up  here,"  she  con 
tinued,  eying  Heman,  as  she  drew  out  the 
supper-table  and  put  up  the  leaves.  "  I  dun- 
no  's  I  ever  knew  anybody  so  took  up  as  he  is 
with  that  concert,  an'  goin'  to  the  vestry  to  sing 
to-night,  an'  all.  He  said  he  'd  call  here  an' 


HEMAN'S   MA.  85 

ride  'long  o'  you,  an'  I  told  him  there  'd  be 
plenty  o'  room,  for  you  'd  take  the  pung." 

If  Heman  felt  any  surprise  at  her  knowledge 
of  his  purpose,  he  did  not  betray  it.  He  poured 
out  his  shaving-water,  and  looked  about  him 
for  an  old  newspaper. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  in  the  pung,"  he  answered, 
without  glancing  at  her.  "  The  shoe  's  most 
off'n  one  o'  the  runners  now." 

The  Widder  Poll  set  a  pie  on  the  table 
with  an  emphasis  unconsciously  embodying  her 
sense  that  now,  indeed,  had  come  the  time  for 
remedies. 

"  I  dunno  what  you  can  take,"  she  remarked, 
with  that  same  foreboding  liveliness.  "Three 
on  a  seat,  an'  your  bass-viol,  too  !  " 

Heman  was  lathering  his  cheeks  before  the 
mirror,  where  a  sinuous  Venus  and  a  too-corpu 
lent  Cupid  disported  themselves  in  a  green 
landscape  above  the  glass.  "  There  ain't  goin' 
to  be  three,"  he  said,  patiently.  "T'others  are 
goin'  by  themselves." 

The  Widder  took  up  her  stand  at  a  well- 
chosen  angle,  and  looked  at  him  in  silence. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  her,  and  it  was  she 
who,  of  necessity,  broke  into  speech. 

"  Well!  I  Ve  got  no  more  to  say.  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  you  'd  go  off  playin'  on  fiddles 
an'  bass-viols,  an'  leave  me,  your  own  wife's 
sister,  settin'  here  the  whole  evenin'  long,  all 
swelled  up  with  the  toothache?" 


86  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Heman  often  felt  that  he  had  reached  a  state 
of  mind  where  nothing  could  surprise  him,  but 
this  point  of  view  was  really  unexpected.  He 
decided,  however,  with  some  scorn,  that  the 
present  misunderstanding  might  arise  from  a 
confusion  of  terms  in  the  feminine  mind. 

"This  ain't  the  concert,"  he  replied,  much  as 
if  she  had  proposed  going  to  the  polls.  "  It 's 
the  rehearsal.  That  means  where  you  play  the 
tunes  over.  The  concert  ain't  comin'  off  for  a 
month." 

And  now  the  Widder  Poll  spoke  with  the  air 
of  one  injured  almost  beyond  reparation. 

"  I  'd  like  to  know  what  difference  that  makes  ! 
If  a  man  's  goin'  where  he  can't  take  his  women 
folks,  I  say  he  'd  better  stay  to  home  !  an'  if 
there  's  things  goin'  on  there  't  you  don  't  want 
me  to  git  hold  of,  I  tell  you,  Heman  Blaisdell, 
you  'd  better  by  half  stop  shavin'  you  now,  an' 
take  yourself  off  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock ! 
Traipsin'  round  playin'  the  fiddle  at  your  age  ! 
Ain't  I  fond  o'  music?" 

"  No,  you  ain't  !  "  burst  forth  Heman,  roused 
to  brief  revolt  where  his  beloved  instrument  was 
concerned.  "  You  don't  know  Old  Hunderd 
from  Yankee  Doodle  !  " 

The  Widder  walked  round  the  table  and  con 
fronted  him  as  he  was  turning  away  from  the 
glass,  shaving-mug  in  hand. 

"You  answer  me    one    question!      I    know 


HEMAN'S   MA.  87 

who  's  goin'  to  be  there,  an'  set  in  the  chorus 
an'  sing  alto.  Brad  Freeman  told  me,  as  inner- 
cent  as  a  lamb.  Heman  Blaisdell,  you  answer 
me  !  Be  you  goin'  to  bring  anybody  here  to 
this  house,  an'  set  her  in  poor  Mary's  place? 
If  you  be,  I  ought  to  be  the  fust  one  to  know 
it." 

Heman  looked  at  the  shaving-mug  for  a 
moment,  as  if  he  contemplated  dashing  it  to  the 
floor.  Then  he  tightened  his  grasp  on  it,  like 
one  putting  the  devil  behind  him. 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  he  said,  doggedly,  adding 
under  his  breath,  "not  unless  I  'm  drove  to  't." 

"  I  dunno  who  could  ha'  done  more,"  said 
the  Widder,  so  patently  with  the  air  of  continu 
ing  for  an  indefinite  period  that  Heman  reached 
up  for  his  hat.  "Where  you  goin'?  Mercy 
sakes  alive  !  don't  you  mean  to  eat  no  supper, 
now  I've  got  it  all  ready?" 

But  Heman  pushed  his  way  past  her  and 
escaped,  muttering  something  about  "feedin'  the 
critters."  Perhaps  the  "critters"  under  his 
care  were  fed  oftener  than  those  on  farms  where 
the  ingle-nook  was  at  least  as  cosey  as  the  barn. 

These  slight  skirmishes  always  left  Heman 
with  an  uneasy  sense  that  somehow  he  also 
must  be  to  blame,  though  he  never  got  beyond 
wondering  what  could  have  been  done  to  avert 
the  squall.  When  he  went  back  into  the 
kitchen,  however,  —  the  "critters"  fed,  and  his 


88  MEADOW-GRASS. 

own  nerves  soothed  by  pitchforking  the  haymow 
with  the  vigor  of  one  who  assaults  a  citadel,  —  he 
was  much  relieved  at  finding  the  atmosphere  as 
clear  as  usual ;  and  as  the  early  twilight  drew 
on,  he  became  almost  happy  at  thought  of  the 
vivid  pleasure  before  him.  Never,  since  his 
wife  died,  had  he  played  his  bass-viol  in  public  ; 
but  he  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  "  slying 
off"  upstairs  to  it,  as  to  a  tryst  with  lover  or 
friend  whom  the  world  denied.  The  Widder 
Poll,  though  she  heard  it  wailing  and  droning 
thence,  never  seriously  objected  to  it ;  the 
practice  was  undoubtedly  "shaller,"  but  it  kept 
him  in  the  house. 

They  ate  supper  in  silence  ;  and  then,  while 
she  washed  the  dishes,  Heman  changed  his 
clothes,  and  went  to  the  barn  to  harness.  He 
stood  for  a  moment,  irresolute,  when  the  horse 
was  ready,  and  then  backed  him  into  the  old 
blue  pung.  A  queer  little  smile  lurked  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  I  guess  the  shoe  '11  go  once  more,"  he  mut 
tered.  "  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  marry  ag'in  !  I 
said  I  ain't,  an'  I  ain't.  But  I  guess  I  can  give 
a  neighbor  a  lift,  if  I  want  to  !  " 

Brad  Freeman  was  waiting  near  the  back 
door  when  Heman  led  the  horse  out  of  the 
barn.  He  was  lank  and  lean,  and  his  thick  red 
hair  strayed  low  over  the  forehead.  His  army 
overcoat  was  rent  here  and  there  beyond  the 


HEMAN'S   MA.  89 

salvation  which  lay  in  his  wife's  patient  mend 
ing,  and  his  old  fur  cap  showed  the  skin  in 
moth-eaten  patches ;  yet  Heman  thought,  with 
a  wondering  protest,  how  young  he  looked,  how 
free  from  care. 

"  Hullo,  Heman  !  "  called  Brad. 

"How  are  ye?"  responded  Heman,  with  a 
cordiality  Brad  never  failed  to  elicit  from  his 
brother  man. 

Heman  left  the  horse  standing,  and  opened 
the  back  door. 

He  stopped  short.  An  awful  vision  con 
fronted  him,  —  the  Widder  Poll,  clad  not  only 
in  the  Tycoon  rep,  but  her  best  palm-leaf  shawl, 
her  fitch  tippet,  and  pumpkin  hood  ;  her  face 
was  still  bandaged,  and  her  head-gear  had  been 
enwound  by  a  green  barege  veil.  She  stepped 
forward  with  an  alertness  quite  unusual  in  one 
so  accustomed  to  remembering  her  weight  of 
mortal  flesh. 

"Here  !"  she  called,  "you  kind  o'  help  me 
climb  in.  I  ain't  so  spry  as  I  was  once. 
You  better  give  me  a  real  boost.  But,  land  !  I 
mustn't  talk.  I  wouldn't  git  a  mite  of  air  into 
that  tooth  for  a  dollar  bill." 

Heman  stepped  into  the  house  for  his  bass- 
viol,  and  brought  it  out  with  an  extremity  of 
tender  care ;  he  placed  it,  enveloped  in  its 
green  baize  covering,  in  the  bottom  of  the  pung. 
Some  ludicrous  association  between  the  baize 


9o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

and  the  green  barege  veil  struck  Brad  so  for 
cibly  that  he  gave  vent  to  a  chuckle,  sliding 
cleverly  into  a  cough.  He  tried  to  meet 
Heman's  eye,  but  Heman  only  motioned  him  to 
get  in,  and  took  his  own  place  without  a  word. 
Brad  wondered  if  he  could  be  ill ;  his  face  had 
grown  yellowish  in  its  pallor,  and  he  seemed  to 
breathe  heavily. 

Midway  in  their  drive  to  the  vestry,  they 
passed  a  woman  walking  briskly  along  in  the 
snowy  track.  She  was  carrying  her  singing- 
books  under  one  arm,  and  holding  her  head 
high  with  that  proud  lift  which  had  seemed, 
more  than  anything  else,  to  keep  alive  her  girl 
hood's  charm. 

"  There  's  Roxy,"  said  Brad.  "  Here,  Heman, 
you  let  me  jump  out,  an'  you  give  her  a  lift." 
But  Heman  looked  straight  before  him,  and 
drove  on. 

By  the  time  they  entered  Tiverton  Street,  the 
vestry  was  full  of  chattering  groups.  Heman 
was  the  last  to  arrive.  He  made  a  long  job  o£ 
covering  the  horse,  inside  the  shed,  resolved 
that  nothing  should  tempt  him  to  face  the  gen 
eral  mirth  at  the  Widder's  entrance.  For  he 
could  not  deceive  himself  as  to  the  world's 
amused  estimate  of  her  guardianship  and  his 
submission.  He  had  even  withdrawn  from  the 
School  Board,  where  he  had  once  been  proud  to 
figure,  because,  entering  the  schoolroom  one  day 


HEMAN'S   MA.  91 

at  recess,  he  had  seen,  on  a  confiscated  slate  at 
the  teacher's  desk,  a  rough  caricature  represent 
ing  "  Heman  and  his  Ma."  The  Ma  was  at 
least  half  the  size  of  the  slate,  while  Heman  was 
microscopic  ;  but,  alas  !  his  inflamed  conscious 
ness  found  in  both  a  resemblance  which  would 
mightily  have  surprised  the  artist.  He  felt  that 
if  he  ever  saw  another  testimony  of  art  to  his 
unworthiness,  he  might  commit  murder. 

When  he  did  muster  courage  to  push  open 
the  vestry  door,  the  Widder  Poll  sat  alone  by 
the  stove,  still  unwinding  her  voluminous  wrap 
pings,  and  the  singers  had  very  pointedly  with 
drawn  by  themselves.  Brad  and  Jont  had 
begun  to  tune  their  fiddles,  and  the  first  pre 
lusive  snapping  of  strings  at  once  awakened 
Heman's  nerves  to  a  pleasant  tingling ;  he 
was  excited  at  the  nearness  of  the  coming  joy. 
He  drew  a  full  breath  when  it  struck  home  to 
him,  with  the  warm  certainty  of  a  happy  truth, 
that  if  he  did  not  look  at  her,  even  the  Widder 
Poll  could  hardly  spoil  his  evening.  Everybody 
greeted  him  with  unusual  kindliness,  though 
some  could  not  refrain  from  coupling  their  word 
with  a  meaning  glance  at  the  colossal  figure 
near  the  stove.  One  even  whispered, — 
"She  treed  ye,  didn't  she,  Heman?" 
He  did  not  trust  himself  to  answer,  but  drew 
the  covering  from  his  own  treasure,  and  began 
his  part  of  the  delicious  snapping  and  screwing. 


92  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"Where's  Roxy?"  called  Jont  Marshall. 
"Can't  do  without  her  alto.  Anybody  seen 
her?" 

Roxy  was  really  very  late,  and  Heman  could 
not  help  wondering  whether  she  had  delayed  in 
starting  because  she  had  expected  a  friendly 
invitation  to  ride.  "All  right,"  he  reflected, 
bitterly.  "  She  must  get  used  to  it." 

The  door  opened,  and  Roxy  came  in.  She 
had  been  walking  fast,  and  her  color  was  high. 
Heman  stole  one  glance  at  her,  under  cover  of 
the  saluting  voices.  She  was  forty  years  old, 
yet  her  hair  had  not  one  silver  thread,  and  at 
that  instant  of  happy  animation,  she  looked 
strikingly  like  her  elder  sister,  to  whom  Heman 
used  to  give  lozenges  when  they  were  boy  and 
girl  together,  and  who  died  in  India.  Then 
Roxy  took  her  place,  and  Heman  bent  over  his 
bass-viol.  The  rehearsal  began.  Heman  for 
got  all  about  his  keeper  sitting  by  the  stove,  as 
the  old,  familiar  tunes  swelled  up  in  the  little 
room,  and  one  antique  phrase  after  another 
awoke  nerve-cells  all  unaccustomed  nowadays  to 
thrilling.  He  could  remember  just  when  he 
first  learned  The  Mellow  Horn,  and  how  his 
uncle,  the  sailor,  had  used  to  sing  it.  "  Fly 
like  a  youthful  hart  or  roe  ! "  Were  there 
spices  still  left  on  the  hills  of  life?  Ah,  but 
only  for  youth  to  smell  and  gather  !  Boldly, 
with  a  happy  bravado,  the  choir  sang,  — 


HEMAN'S   MA.  93 

"  The  British  yoke,  the  Gallic  chain, 
Were  placed  upon  our  necks  in  vain  ! '' 

And  then  came  the  pious  climax  of  Coronation, 
America,  and  the  Doxology.  Above  the  tumult 
of  voices  following  the  end  of  rehearsal,  some 
one  announced  the  decision  to  meet  on  Wed 
nesday  night;  and  Heman,  his  bass-viol  again 
in  its  case,  awoke,  and  saw  the  Widder  putting 
on  her  green  veil.  Rosa  Tolman  nudged  her 
intimate  friend,  Laura  Pettis,  behind  Heman's 
back,  and  whispered,  — 

"  I  wonder  if  she  's  had  a  good  time  !  There 
'ain't  been  a  soul  for  her  to  speak  to,  the  whole 
evenin'  long  !  " 

The  other  girl  laughed,  with  a  delicious  sense 
of  fun  in  the  situation,  and  Heman  recoiled ; 
the  sound  was  like  a  blow  in  the  face. 

'•Say,  Heman,"  said  Brad,  speaking  in  his 
ear.  "  I  guess  I  '11  walk  home,  so  't  you  can 
take  in  Roxy." 

But  Heman  had  bent  his  head,  and  was  mov 
ing  along  with  the  rest,  like  a  man  under  a 
burden. 

"  No,"  said  he,  drearily.  "  I  can't.  You 
come  along." 

His  tone  was  quite  conclusive ;  and  Brad, 
albeit  wondering,  said  no  more.  The  three 
packed  themselves  into  the  pung,  and  drove 
away.  Heman  was  conscious  of  some  dull 
relief  in  remembering  that  he  need  not  pass 


94  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Roxy  again  on  the  road,  for  he  heard  her  voice 
ring  out  clearly  from  a  group  near  the  church. 
He  wondered  if  anybody  would  go  home  with 
her,  and  whether  she  minded  the  dark  "  spell 
o'  woods  "  by  the  river.  No  matter  !  It  was 
of  no  use.  She  must  get  used  to  her  own 
company. 

The  Widder  was  almost  torpid  from  her  long 
sojourn  by  the  stove  ;  but  the  tingling  air  roused 
her  at  last,  and  she  spoke,  though  mumblingly, 
remembering  her  tooth,  — 

"  Proper  nice  tunes,  wa'n't  they?  Was  most 
on  'em  new?  " 

But  Brad  could  not  hear,  and  left  it  for 
Heman  to  answer ;  and  Heman  gave  his  head 
a  little  restive  shake,  and  said,  "  No."  At  his 
own  gate,  he  stopped. 

"  I  guess  I  won't  car'  you  down  home,"  he 
said  to  Brad. 

It  was  only  a  stone's-throw.     Brad  hesitated. 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  for  ye  to,"  answered  he, 
"but  I  '11  stop  an'  help  unharness." 

"  No,"  said  Heman,  gently.  "  You  bettei 
not.  I  'd  ruther  do  it."  Even  a  friendly  voice 
had  become  unbearable  in  his  ears. 

So  Brad  stepped  down,  lifted  out  his  fiddle- 
case,  and  said  good-night.  Heman  drove  into 
the  yard,  and  stopped  before  the  kitchen  door. 
He  took  the  reins  in  one  hand,  and  held  out 
the  other  to  the  Widder. 


HEMAN'S   MA.  95 

"You  be  a  mite  careful  o*  your  feet,"  he  said. 
"  That  bass-viol  slipped  a  little  for'ard  when  we 
come  down  Lamson's  Hill." 

She  rose  ponderously.  She  seemed  to  sway 
and  hesitate  ;  then  she  set  one  foot  cautiously 
forward  in  the  pung.  There  was  a  rending 
crash.  The  Widder  Poll  had  stepped  into  the 
bass-viol.  She  gave  a  little  scream,  and  plunged 
forward. 

"  My  foot 's  ketched  !  "  she  cried.  "  Can't 
you  help  me  out?  " 

Heman  dropped  the  reins ;  he  put  his  hands 
on  her  arms,  and  pulled  her  forward.  He  never 
knew  whether  she  reached  the  ground  on  her 
feet  or  her  knees.  Then  he  pushed  past  her, 
where  she  floundered,  and  lifted  out  his  darling. 
He  carried  it  into  the  kitchen,  and  lighted  the 
candle,  with  trembling  hands.  He  drew  back 
the  cover.  The  bass-viol  had  its  mortal  wound  ; 
he  could  have  laid  both  fists  into  the  hole.  He 
groaned. 

"  My  God  Almighty  !  "  he  said  aloud. 

The  Widder  Poll  had  stumbled  into  the  room. 
She  threw  back  her  green  veil,  and  her  face 
shone  ivory  white  under  its  shadow ;  her  small 
eyes  were  starting.  She  looked  like  a  culprit 
whom  direst  vengeance  had  overtaken  at  last. 
At  the  sound  of  her  step,  Heman  lifted  his 
hurt  treasure,  carried  it  tenderly  into  his  bed 
room,  and  shut  the  door  upon  it.  He  turned 


96  MEADOW-GRASS. 

about,  and  walked  past  her  out  of  the  house. 
The  Widder  Poll  followed  him,  wringing  her 
mittened  hands. 

"  O  Heman  !  "  she  cried,  "  don't  you  look 
like  that !  Oh,  you  '11  do  yourself  some  mischief, 
I  know  you  will  !  " 

But  Heman  had  climbed  into  the  pung,  and 
given  Old  Gameleg  a  vicious  cut.  Swinging 
out  of  the  yard  they  went ;  and  the  Widder  Poll 
ran  after  until,  just  outside  the  gate,  she  reflected 
that  she  never  could  overtake  him  and  that  her 
ankles  were  weak ;  then  she  returned  to  the 
house,  groaning. 

Heman  was  conscious  of  one  thought  only : 
if  any  man  had  come  home  with  Roxy,  he 
should  kill  him  with  his  own  hands.  He  drove 
on,  almost  to  the  vestry,  and  found  no  trace  of 
her.  He  turned  about,  and,  retracing  his  way, 
stopped  at  her  mother's  gate,  left  Old  Gameleg, 
and  strode  into  the  yard.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  kitchen,  and  only  a  glimmer  in  the  cham 
ber  above.  Heman  went  up  to  the  kitchen 
door  and  knocked.  The  chamber  window 
opened. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Cole.  "Why, 
that  you,  Heman?  Anybody  sick?" 

"Where's  Roxy?"  returned  Heman,  as  if  he 
demanded  her  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 

"  Why,  she  's  been  abed  as  much  as  ten  min 
utes.  The  Tuckers  brought  her  home." 


HEMAN'S   MA.  97 

"  You  tell  her  to  come  here  !  I  want  to  see 
her." 

"  What !  down  there  ?  Law,  Heman  !  you 
come  in  the  mornin'.  She  '11  ketch  her  death 
o'  cold  gittin'  up  an'  dressin',  now  she  's  got  all 
warmed  through." 

"What's  he  want,  mother?"  came  Roxy's 
clear  voice  from  within  the  room.  "  That 's 
Heman  Blaisdell's  voice." 

"  Roxy,  you  come  down  here  ! "  called  Heman, 
masterfully. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  Cole 
was  apparently  pulled  away  from  the  window. 
Then  Roxy,  her  head  enveloped  in  a  shawl, 
appeared  in  her  mother's  place. 

"Well!"  she  said,  impatiently.  "What  is 
it?" 

Hernan's  voice  found  a  pleading  level. 

"  Roxy,  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  Heman,  you  're  perfectly  ridiculous  ! 
At  this  time  o'  night,  too  !  " 

"You  answer  me!"  cried  Heman,  desper 
ately.  "  I  want  you  !  Won't  you  have  me, 
Roxy?  Say?" 

"Roxy!"  came  her  mother's  muffled  voice 
from  the  bed.  "  You  '11  git  your  death  o'  cold. 
What's  he  want?  Can't  you  give  him  an 
answer  an'  let  him  go?" 

"Won't  you,  Roxy?"  called  Heman.  "Oh, 
won't  you?  " 

7 


98  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Roxy  began  to  laugh  hysterically.  "Yes," 
she  said,  and  shut  the  window. 

When  Heman  had  put  up  the  horse,  he  walked 
into  the  kitchen,  and  straight  up  to  the  WTidder 
Poll,  who  stood  awaiting  him,  clinging  to  the 
table  by  one  fat  hand. 

"  Now,  look  here  !  "  he  said,  good-naturedly, 
speaking  to  her  with  a  direct  address  he  had 
not  been  able  to  use  for  many  a  month.  "  You 
listen  to  me.  I  don't  want  any  hard  feelin', 
but  to-morrer  mornin'  you  've  got  to  pick  up 
your  things  an'  go.  You  can  have  the  house 
down  to  the  Holler,  or  you  can  go  out  nussin', 
but  you  come  here  by  your  own  invitation,  an' 
you  've  got  to  leave  by  mine.  I  'm  goin'  to  be 
married  as  soon  as  I  can  git  a  license."  Then 
he  walked  to  the  bedroom,  and  shut  himself  in 
with  his  ruined  bass-viol  and  the  darkness. 

And  the  Widder  Poll  did  not  speak. 

There  are  very  few  cosey  evenings  when 
Heman  and  Roxy  do  not  smile  at  each  other 
across  the  glowing  circle  of  their  hearth,  and 
ask,  the  one  or  the  other,  with  a  perplexity 
never  to  be  allayed, — 

"  Do  you  s'pose  she  tumbled,  or  did  she 
put  her  foot  through  it  a-purpose?" 

But  Heman  is  sure  to  conclude  the  discussion 
with  a  glowing  tribute  to  Brad  Freeman,  his 
genius  and  his  kindliness. 


HEMAN'S   MA.  99 

"I  never  shall  forgit  that  o'  Brad,"  he  an 
nounces.  "There  wa'n't  another  man  in  the 
State  o'  New  Hampshire  could  ha'  mended  it 
as  he  did.  Why,  you  never  'd  know  there  was 
a  brack  in  it !  " 


HEARTSEASE. 

"  For  as  for  heartsease,  it  groweth  in  a  single  night." 

"  WHAT  be  you  doin>  ofj  Mis' Lamson?" 

*  *  asked  Mrs.  Pettis,  coming  in  from  the 
kitchen,  where  she  had  been  holding  a  long 
conversation  with  young  Mrs.  Lamson  on  the 
possibility  of  doing  over  sugar-barberry.  Mrs. 
Pettis  was  a  heavy  woman,  bent  almost  double 
with  rheumatism,  and  she  carried  a  baggy  um 
brella  for  a  cane.  She  was  always  sighing  over 
the  difficulty  of  "  gittin'  round  the  house,"  but 
nevertheless  she  made  more  calls  than  any  one 
else  in  the  neighborhood.  "It kind  o'  limbered 
her  up,"  she  said,  "  to  take  a  walk  after  she  had 
been  bendin'  over  the  dish-pan." 

Mrs.  Lamson  looked  up  with  an  alert,  bright 
glance.  She  was  a  little  creature,  and  some 
thing  still  girlish  lingered  in  her  straight,  slender 
figure  and  the  poise  of  her  head.  "  Old  Lady 
Lamson  "  was  over  eighty,  and  she  dressed  with 
due  deference  to  custom  ;  but  everything  about 
her  gained,  in  the  wearing,  an  air  of  youth. 
Her  aggressively  brown  front  was  rumpled  a 
little,  as  if  it  had  tried  to  crimp  itself,  only  to 


HEARTSEASE.  101 

be  detected  before  the  operation  was  well  be 
gun,  and  the  purple  ribbons  of  her  cap  flared 
rakishly  aloft. 

"  I  jest  took  up  a  garter,"  she  said,  with  some 
apology  in  her  tone.  "  Kind  o'  fiddlin'  work, 
ain't  it?  " 

"  Last  time  I  was  here,  you  was  knittin'  mit- 
tins,"  continued  Mrs.  Pettis,  seating  herself 
laboriously  on  the  lounge,  and  leaning  forward 
upon  the  umbrella  clutched  steadily  in  two  fat 
hands.  "  You  're  dretful  forehanded.  I  remem 
ber  I  said  so  then.  '  Samwel  'ain't  got  a  mittin 
to  his  name,'  I  says,  •'  nor  he  won't  have  'fore 
November.'  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  David  's  pretty  well  on  't  for 
everything  now,"  answered  Mrs.  Lamson,  with 
some  pride.  "  He  's  got  five  pair  o'  new  mit- 
tins,  an'  my  little  blue  chist  full  o'  stockin's.  I 
knit  'em  tvvo-an'-two,  an'  two-an'-one,  an'  toed 
some  on  'em  off  with  white,  an'  some  with  red, 
so  's  to  keep  'em  in  pairs.  But  Mary  said  I 
better  not  knit  any  more,  for  fear  the  moths  'd 
git  into  'em,  an'  so  I  stopped  an'  took  up  this 
garter.  But  'tis  dretful  fiddlin'  work  !  " 

A  brief  silence  fell  upon  the  two,  while  the 
sweet  summer  scents  stole  in  at  the  window,  — • 
the  breath  of  the  cinnamon  rose,  of  growing 
grass  and  good  brown  earth.  Mrs.  Pettis  pon 
dered,  looking  vacantly  before  her,  and  Old  Lady 
Lamson  knit  hastily  on.  Her  needles  clicked 


io2  MEADOW-GRASS. 

together,  and  she  turned  her  work  with  a  jerk 
in  beginning  a  row.  But  neither  was  oppressed 
by  lack  of  speech.  They  understood  each 
other,  and  no  more  thought  of  "  making  talk" 
than  of  pulling  up  a  seed  to  learn  whether  it 
had  germinated.  It  was  Mrs.  Pettis  who,  after 
a  natural  interval,  felt  moved  to  speak. 

"  Mary  's  master  thoughtful  of  you,  ain't  she? 
'Tain't  many  sons'  wives  would  be  so  tender  of 
anybody,  now  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Lamson  looked  up  sharply,  and  then, 
with  the  same  quick  movement,  bent  her  eyes 
on  her  work. 

"  Mary  means  to  do  jest  what 's  right,"  she 
answered.  "  If  she  don't  make  out,  it  ain't  for 
lack  o'  tryin'." 

"  So  I  says  to  Samwel  this  mornin'.  '  Old 
Lady  Lamson  'ain't  one  thing  to  concern  herself 
with,'  says  I,  '  but  to  git  dressed  an'  set  by  the 
winder.  When  dinner-time  comes,  she  's  got 
nothin'  to  do  but  hitch  up  to  the  table  ;  an'  she 
don't  have  to  touch  her  hand  to  a  dish."  Now 
ain't  that  so,  Mis'  Lamson?" 

"That's  so,"  agreed  Mrs.  Lamson,  with  a 
little  sigh,  instantly  suppressed.  "  It 's  different 
from  what  I  thought  to  myself  'twould  be  when 
Mary  come  here.  '  'Tain't  in  natur'  she  '11  have 
the  feelin'  for  me  she  would  for  her  own,'  I 
says ;  but  I  b'lieve  she  has,  an'  more  too. 
When  she  come  for  good,  I  made  up  my  mind 


HEARTSEASE.  103 

I  'd  put  up  with  everything,  an'  say  'twas  all  in 
the  day's  work  ;  but  law  !  I  never  had  to.  She 
an'  David  both  act  as  if  I  was  sugar  or  salt,  I 
dunno  which." 

"  Don't  ye  never  help  'round,  washin'- 
days?" 

"  Law,  no  !  Mary  won't  hear  to  't.  She  'd 
ruther  have  the  dishes  wait  till  everything  's  on 
the  line  ;  an'  if  I  stir  a  step  to  go  into  the  gar- 
din  to  pick  a  mess  o'  beans  or  kill  a  currant 
worm,  she  's  right  arter  me.  '  Mother,  don't 
you  fall ! '  she  says,  a  dozen  times  a  day.  '  I 
dunno  what  David  'd  do  to  me,  if  I  let  anything 
happen  to  you.'  An'  David,  he  's  ketched  it, 
too.  One  night,  'long  towards  Thanksgivin' 
time,  I  kicked  the  soapstone  out  o'  bed,  an' 
he  come  runnin'  up  as  if  he  was  bewitched. 
'Mother,'  says  he,  'did  you  fall?  You  'ain't 
had  a  stroke,  have  ye  ?  ' ' 

Old  Lady  Lamson  laughed  huskily ;  her  black 
eyes  shone,  and  her  cap  ribbons  nodded  and 
danced,  but  there  was  an  ironical  ring  to  her 
merriment. 

"  Do  tell !  "  responded  Mrs.  Pettis,  in  her 
ruminating  voice.  "  Well,  things  were  different 
when  we  was  young  married  folks,  an'  used  to 
do  our  own  spinnin'  an'  weavin'." 

"  I  guess  so  !  "  Mrs.  Lamson  dropped  her 
busy  hands  in  her  lap,  and  leaned  back  a  mo 
ment,  in  eager  retrospect.  "  Do  you  recollect 


104  MEADOW-GRASS. 

that  Friday  we  spun  from  four  o'clock  in  the 
mornin'  till  six  that  evenin',  because  the  men- 
folks  had  gone  in  the  ma'sh,  an'  all  we  had  to 
do  was  to  stop  an'  feed  the  critters?  An'  Hiram 
Peasley  come  along  with  tinware,  an'  you  says, 
'  If  you  're  a  mind  to  stop  at  my  house,  an'  throw 
a  colander  an'  a  long-handled  dipper  over  the 
fence,  under  the  flowerin'-currant,  an'  wait  till 
next  time  for  your  pay,  I  '11  take  'em,'  says  you. 
'  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  leave  off  spinnin'  for  any 
thing  less  'n  Gabriel's  trumpet,'  says  you.  I 
remember  your  sayin'  that,  as  if  'twas  only  yis- 
terday  ;  an'  arter  you  said  it,  you  kind  o'  drawed 
down  your  face  an'  looked  scairt.  An'  I  never 
thought  on 't  ag'in  till  next  Sabbath  evenin', 
when  Jim  Bellows  rose  to  speak,  an'  made  some 
handle  about  the  Day  o'  Judgment,  an'  then  I 
tickled  right  out." 

"  How  you  do  set  by  them  days  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Pettis,  striving  to  keep  a  steady  face,  though  her 
heavy  sides  were  shaking.  "  I  guess  you  re 
member  'em  better  'n  your  prayers  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  laughed  out  loud,  an'  you  passed  me 
a  pep'mint  over  the  pew,  an'  looked  as  if  you 
was  goin'  to  cry.  '  Don't,'  says  you ;  an'  it  sort 
o'  come  over  me  you  knew  what  I  was  laughin' 
at.  Why,  if  there  ain't  John  Freeman  stoppin' 
here,  —  Mary's  sister's  brother-in-law,  you  know. 
Lives  down  to  Bell  P'int.  Guess  he  's  pullin' 
up  to  give  the  news." 


HEARTSEASE.  105 

Mrs.  Pettis  came  slowly  to  her  feet,  and 
scanned  the  farmer,  who  was  hitching  his  horse 
to  the  fence.  When  he  had  gone  round  to  the 
back  door,  she  turned,  and  grasped  her  umbrella 
with  a  firmer  hand. 

"  Well,  I  guess  'twon't  pay  me  to  set  down 
ag'in,"  she  announced.  "  I  'm  goin'  to  take  it 
easy  on  the  way  home.  I  dunno  but  I  '11  let 
down  the  bars,  an'  poke  a  little  ways  into  the 
north  pastur',  an'  see  if  I  can't  git  a  mite  o' 
pennyr'yal.  I  '11  be  in  ag'in  to-morrer  or  next 
day." 

"  So  do,  so  do,"  returned  Mrs.  Lamson. 

"  Tain't  no  use  to  ask  you  to  come  down,  I 
s'pose?  You  don't  git  out  so  fur,  nowa 
days." 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  still  with  that  latent 
touch  of  sarcasm  in  her  voice.  "  If  I  should 
fall,  there  'd  be  a  great  hurrah,  boys,  — '  fire  on 
the  mountain,  run,  boys,  run  ! '  ' 

Mrs.  Pettis  toiled  out  into  the  road  ;  and  Old 
Lady  Lamson,  laying  her  knitting  on  the  table, 
bent  forward,  not  to  watch  her  out  of  sight,  but 
to  make  sure  whether  she  really  would  stop  at 
the  north  pasture. 

"  No,  she  's  goin'  by,"  she  said  aloud,  with 
evident  relief.  "  No,  she  ain't  either.  I  '11 
be  whipped  if  she  ain't  lettin'  down  the  bars  ! 
'Twould  smell  kind  o'  good,  I  declare  !  " 

She  was  still   peering    forward,   one   slender 


106  MEADOW-GRASS. 

hand  on  the  window-sill,  when  Mary,  a  pretty 
young  woman,  with  two  nervous  lines  between 
her  eyes,  came  hurrying  in. 

"  Mother,"  she  began,  in  that  unnatural  voice 
which  is  supposed  to  allay  excitement  in  an 
other,  "  I  dunno  what  I  'm  goin'  to  do.  Stella  's 
sick." 

"  You  don't  say  !  "  said  Old  Lady  Lamson, 
turning  away  from  the  window.  "  What  do  they 
think  'tis?" 

"  Fever,  John  says.  An'  she  's  so  full-blooded 
it  '11  be  likely  to  go  hard  with  her.  They  want 
me  to  go  right  down,  an'  David  's  got  to  carry 
me.  John  would,  but  he  's  gone  to  be  referee 
in  that  land  case,  an'  he  won't  be  back  for  a 
day  or  two.  It 's  a  mercy  David  's  just  home 
from  town,  so  he  won't  have  to  change  his 
clo'es  right  through.  Now,  mother,  if  you 
should  have  little  'Liza  Tolman  come  an'  stay 
with  you,  do  you  think  anything  would  happen, 
s'posin'  we  left  you  alone  just  one  night?  " 

A  little  flush  rose  in  the  old  lady's  withered 
cheek.  Her  eyes  gleamed  brightly  through  her 
glasses. 

"  Don't  you  worry  one  mite  about  me,"  she 
replied,  in  an  even  voice.  "  You  change  your 
dress,  an'  git  off  afore  it 's  dark.  I  shall  be  all 
right." 

"David  's  harnessin'  now,"  said  Mary,  begin 
ning  to  untie  her  apron.  "  I  sent  John  down 


HEARTSEASE.  107 

to  the  lower  barn  to  call  him.  But,  mother,  if 
anything  should  happen  to  you  —  " 

"  Lord-a-massy  !  nothin'  's  goin'  to  !  "  the 
old  lady  broke  forth,  in  momentary  impatience. 
"  Don't  stan'  here  talkin'.  You  better  have 
your  mind  on  Stella.  Fever 's  a  quicker  com 
plaint  than  old  age.  It  al'ays  was,  an'  al'ays 
will  be." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it !  I  know  it !  "  cried  Mary, 
starting  toward  the  door.  "  There  ain't  a  thing 
for  you  to  do.  There 's  new  bread  an'  pre 
serves  on  the  dairy-wheel,  an'  you  have  'Liza 
Tolman  pick  you  up  some  chips,  an'  build  the 
fire  for  your  tea ;  an'  don't  you  wash  the  dishes, 
mother.  Just  leave  'em  in  the  sink.  An'  for 
mercy  sake,  take  a  candle,  an'  not  meddle  with 
kerosene  —  " 

"Come,  come,  ain't  you  ready?"  came  Da 
vid's  voice  from  the  door.  "  I  can't  keep  the 
horse  stan'in'  here  till  he  's  all  eat  up  with  flies." 

Mary  fled  to  her  bedroom,  unbuttoning  her 
dress  as  she  ran ;  and  David  came  in,  bringing 
an  air  of  outdoor  freshness  into  the  little  sitting- 
room,  with  his  regal  height,  his  broad  shoulders, 
and  tanned,  fresh  face. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said,  putting  a  hand  of 
clumsy  kindliness  on  her  shoulder,  "  if  anything 
happens  to  you  while  we  're  gone,  I  shall  wish 
we  'd  let  the  whole  caboodle  of  'em  die  in  their 
tracks.  Don't  s'pose. anything  will,  do  ye?" 


io8  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Law,  no,  David  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  lady, 
looking  at  him  with  beaming  pride.  "  You 
stan'  still  an'  let  me  pick  that  mite  o'  lint  off 
your  arm.  I  shall  be  tickled  to  death  to  git 
rid  on  ye." 

"  Now,  mother,"  counselled  Mary,  when  she 
came  out  of  the  bedroom,  hastily  tying  her 
bonnet  strings,  "  you  watch  the  school-children, 
an'  ask  'Liza  Tolman  to  stay  with  you,  an'  if 
she  can't,  to  get  one  of  the  Daltons ;  an'  tell 
her  we  '11  give  her  some  Bartlett  pears  when 
they  're  ripe." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  hear,"  answered  the%old  lady, 
rising,  and  setting  back  her  chair  in  its  accus 
tomed  corner.  "  Now,  do  go  along,  or  ye  won't 
be  down  to  Grapevine  Run  afore  five  o'clock." 

She  watched  them  while  they  drove  out  of 
the  yard,  shading  her  eyes  with  one  nervous 
hand. 

"  Mother,"  called  Mary,  "  don't  you  stan' 
there  in  that  wind,  with  nothin'  on  your  head  !  " 

The  old  lady  turned  back  into  the  house,  and 
her  face  was  alive  with  glee. 

"Wind  !  "  she  ejaculated  scornfully,  and  yet 
with  the  tolerance  of  one  too  happy  for  com 
plaint.  "  Wind  !  I  guess  there  wouldn't  be  so 
much,  if  some  folks  would  save  their  breath  to 
cool  their  porridge  !  " 

She  did  not  go  back  to  the  sitting-room  and 
her  peaceful  knitting.  She  walked  into  the 


HEARTSEASE.  109 

pantry,  where  she  gave  the  shelves  a  critical 
survey,  and  then,  returning  to  the  kitchen, 
looked  about  her  once  more. 

"  If  it 's  one  day  sence  I  've  been  down  sul- 
lar,"  she  said  aloud,  "  it 's  two  year."  She  was 
lighting  a  candle  as  she  spoke.  In  another 
moment,  she  was  taking  sprightly  steps  down 
the  stairs  into  the  darkness  below. 

"  Now,  mother,  don't  you  fall !  "  she  chuckled, 
midway  in  the  descent ;  and  it  was  undeniable 
that  the  voice  sounded  much  like  Mary's  in  her 
anxious  mood.  "  Now,  ain't  I  a  mean  creatur' 
to  stan'  here  laughin'  at  'em  !  "  she  went  on. 
"  Well,  if  she  don't  keep  things  nice  !  'Taters 
all  sprouted ;  an'  the  preserve  cupboard  never 
looked  better  in  my  day.  Mary  's  been  well 
brought  up,  —  I'll  say  that  for  her." 

Old  Lady  Lamson  must  have  spent  at  least 
half  an  hour  in  the  cellar,  for  when  she  ascended 
it  was  after  four  o'clock,  and  the  school-children 
had  passed  the  house  on  their  way  home.  She 
heard  their  voices  under  the  elms  at  the  turn  of 
the  road. 

"  I  ain't  to  blame  if  I  can't  ketch  'em,"  she 
remarked  calmly,  as  she  blew  out  her  light.  "  I 
don't  see  's  anybody  could  say  I  was  to  blame. 
An'  I  couldn't  walk  up  to  the  Tolmans'  to  ask 
'Liza.  I  might  fall !  " 

She  set  about  her  preparations  for  supper.  It 
was  a  favorite  maxim  in  the  household  that  the 


no  MEADOW-GRASS. 

meal  should  be  eaten  early,  "  to  get  it  out  of 
the  way  ; "  and  to-night  this  unaccustomed  hand 
maid  had  additional  reasons  for  haste.  But  the 
new  bread  and  preserves  were  ignored.  She 
built  a  rousing  fire  in  the  little  kitchen  stove ; 
she  brought  out  the  moulding-board,  and  with 
trembling  eagerness  proceeded  to  mix  cream- 
of-tartar  biscuits.  Not  Cellini  himself  nor  Jean- 
nie  Carlyle  had  awaited  the  results  of  passionate 
labor  with  a  more  strenuous  eagerness ;  and 
when  she  drew  out  the  panful  of  delicately 
browned  biscuits,  she  set  it  down  on  the  table, 
and  looked  at  it  in  sheer  delight. 

"  I  '11  be  whipped  if  they  ain't  as  good  as  if 
I  'd  made  'em  every  night  for  the  last  two 
year  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  'ain't  got  to  git  my  hand 
in,  an'  that 's  truth  an'  fact !  " 

She  brought  out  some  "  cold  b'iled  dish," 
made  her  strong  green  tea,  and  sat  down  to  a 
banquet  such  as  they  taste  who  have  reached 
the  Delectable  Mountains.  It  held  within  it 
all  the  savor  of  a  happy  past ;  it  satisfied  her 
hungry  soul. 

After  she  had  washed  the  supper  dishes  and 
scrupulously  swept  the  hearth,  she  rested,  for  a 
moment's  thought,  in  the  old  rocking-chair,  and 
then  took  her  way,  candle  in  hand,  to  the  attic. 
There  was  no  further  self-confidence  on  the 
stairs ;  she  was  too  serious,  now.  Her  hours 
were  going  fast.  The  attic,  in  spite  of  the  open 


HEARTSEASE.  1 1 1 

windows,  lay  hot  under  summer's  touch  upon 
the  shingles  outside,  and  odorous  of  the  dried 
herbs  hanging  in  bunches  here  and  there. 

"  Wormwood  —  thoroughwort  —  spearmint," 
she  mused,  as  she  touched  them,  one  after  an 
other,  and  inhaled  their  fragrance.  "  Tain't 
so  long  ago  I  was  out  pickin'  herbs  an'  dryin' 
'em.  Well,  well,  well  !  " 

She  made  her  way  under  the  eaves,  and  pulled 
out  a  hair-trunk,  studded  with  brass  nails.  A 
rush-bottomed  chair  stood  near-by,  and,  setting 
her  candle  in  it,  she  knelt  before  the  trunk  and 
began  lifting  out  its  contents  :  a  brocaded  satin 
waistcoat  of  a  long-past  day,  a  woolen  comforter 
knit  in  stripes,  a  man's  black  broadcloth  coat. 
She  smoothed  them,  as  she  laid  them  by,  and 
there  was  a  wondering  note  in  her  lowered 
voice. 

"  My  Lord  !  "  she  whispered  reverently,  as  if 
speaking  to  One  who  would  hear  and  under 
stand,  "  it 's  over  fifty  year  !  " 

A  pile  of  yellowed  linen  lay  in  the  bottom  of 
the  trunk,  redolent  of  camphor  from  contact 
with  its  perishable  neighbors.  She  lifted  one 
shirt  after  another,  looking  at  them  in  silence. 
Then  she  laid  back  the  other  clothes,  took  up 
her  candle  and  the  shirts,  and  went  downstairs 
again.  In  hot  haste,  she  rebuilt  the  kitchen 
fire,  and  set  two  large  kettles  of  water  on  the 
stove.  She  dragged  the  washing-bench  into 


ii2  MEADOW-GRASS. 

the  back  kitchen  from  its  corner  in  the  shed, 
and  on  it  placed  her  tubs ;  and  when  the  water 
was  heated,  she  put  the  garments  into  a  tub,  and 
rubbed  with  the  vigor  and  ease  of  a  woman  well 
accustomed  to  such  work.  All  the  sounds  of 
the  night  were  loud  about  her,  and  the  song  of 
the  whippoorwill  came  in  at  the  open  door. 
He  was  very  near.  His  presence  should  have 
been  a  sign  of  approaching  trouble,  but  Old 
Lady  Lamson  did  not  hear  him.  Her  mind 
was  reading  the  lettered  scroll  of  a  vanished 
year. 

Perhaps  the  touch  of  the  warm  water  on  her 
hands  recalled  her  to  the  present. 

"  Seems  good  to  feel  the  suds,"  she  said, 
happily,  holding  up  one  withered  hand,  and  let 
ting  the  foam  drip  from  her  fingers.  "  I  wish 't 
I  could  dry  outdoor  !  But  when  mornin'  come, 
they  'd  be  all  of  a  sop." 

She  washed  and  rinsed  the  garments,  and, 
opening  a  clothes-horse,  spread  them  out  to 
dry.  Then  she  drew  a  long  breath,  put  out  her 
candle,  and  wandered  to  the  door.  The  garden 
lay  before  her,  unreal  in  the  beauty  of  moon 
light.  Every  bush  seemed  an  enchanted  wood. 
The  old  lady  went  forth,  lingering  at  first,  as 
one  too  rich  for  choosing ;  then  with  a  firmer 
step.  She  closed  the  little  gate,  and  walked 
out  into  the  country  road.  She  hurried  along 
to  the  old  signboard,  and  turned  aside  unerr- 


HEARTSEASE.  113 

ingly  into  a  hollow  there,  where  she  stooped 
and  filled  her  hands  with  tansy,  pulling  it  up 
in  great  bunches,  and  pressing  it  eagerly  to  her 
face. 

"  Seventy-four  year  ago  !  "  she  told  the  unseen 
listener  of  the  night,  with  the  same  wonder  in 
her  voice.  "  Sir  laid  dead,  an'  they  sent  me 
down  here  to  pick  tansy  to  put  round  him. 
Seventy- four  year  ago  !  " 

Still  holding  it,  she  rose,  and  went  through  the 
bars  into  the  dewy  lane.  Down  the  wandering 
path,  trodden  daily  by  the  cows,  she  walked, 
and  came  out  in  the  broad  pasture,  irregular 
with  its  little  hillocks,  where,  as  she  had  been 
told  from  her  babyhood,  the  Indians  used  to 
plant  their  corn.  She  entered  the  woods  by  a 
cart-path  hidden  from  the  moon,  and  went  on 
with  a  light  step,  gathering  a  bit  of  green  here 
and  there,  —  now  hemlock,  now  a  needle  from 
the  sticky  pine,  —  and  inhaling  its  balsam  on 
her  hands.  A  sharp  descent,  and  she  had 
reached  the  spot  where  the  brook  ran  fast,  and 
where  lay  "  Peggy's  b'ilin'  spring,"  named  for  a 
great-aunt  she  had  never  seen,  but  whose  gold 
beads  she  had  inherited,  and  who  had  conse 
quently  seemed  to  her  a  person  of  opulence 
and  ease. 

"  I  wish 't  I  'd  brought  a  cup,"  she  said. 
"  There  ain't  no  such  water  within  twenty 
mile." 


ii4  MEADOW-GRASS. 

She  crouched  beside  the  little  black  pool, 
where  the  moon  glinted  in  mysterious,  wavering 
symbols  to  beckon  the  gaze  upward,  and,  mak 
ing  a  cup  of  her  hand,  drank  eagerly.  There 
was  a  sound  near-by,  as  if  some  wood  creature 
were  stirring ;  she  thought  she  heard  a  fox 
barking  in  the  distance.  Yet  she  was  really 
conscious  only  of  the  wonder  of  time,  the  sol 
emn  record  of  the  fleeting  years. 

When  she  made  her  way  back  through  the 
woods,  the  moon  was  sinking,  and  the  shadows 
had  grown  heavy.  As  she  reached  the  bars 
again,  on  her  homeward  track,  she  stopped  sud 
denly,  and  her  face  broke  into  smiling  at  the 
pungent  fragrance  rising  from  the  bruised  herb 
age  beneath  her  feet.  She  stooped  and  gath 
ered  one  telltale,  homely  weed,  mixed  as  it  was 
with  the  pasture  grass.  "  Pennyr'yal,"  she  said 
happily,  and  felt  the  richness  of  being. 

When  Old  Lady  Lamson  had  ironed  her 
shirts  and  put  them  away  again,  all  hot  and 
sweet  from  the  fire,  it  was  five  o'clock,  and  the 
birds  had  long  been  trying  to  drag  creation  up 
from  sleep,  to  sing  with  them  the  wonders  of 
the  dawn.  At  six,  she  had  her  cup  of  tea,  and 
when,  at  eight,  her  son  drove  into  the  yard,  she 
came  placidly  to  the  side  door  to  meet  him, 
her  knitting  in  her  hands. 

"  Well,  if  I  ain't  glad  !  "  called  David.  "  I 
couldn't  git  it  out  o'  my  mind  somcthin'  'd 


HEARTSEASE.  115 

happened  to  you.  Stella  's  goin'  to  be  all  right, 
they  think,  but  nothin'  will  do  but  Mary  must 
stay  a  spell.  Do  you  s'pose  you  an'  I  could 
keep  house  a  week  or  so,  if  I  do  the  heft  o'  the 
work?  " 

Old  Lady  Lamson's  eyes  took  on  the  look 
which  sometimes  caused  her  son  to  inquire  sus 
piciously,  "  Mother,  what  you  laughin1  at?" 

"  I  guess  we  can,  if  we  try  hard  enough,"  she 
said,  soberly,  rolling  up  her  yarn.  "  Now  you 
come  in,  an'  I  '11  git  you  a  bite  o'  somethin' 
feat." 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S  GUEST. 


PENDLETON  sat  by  the  kitchen 
^-'  fire,  his  stockinged  feet  in  the  oven,  and 
his  hands  stretched  out  toward  the  kettles, 
which  were  bubbling  prosperously  away,  and 
puffing  a  cloud  of  steam  into  his  face.  He  was 
a  meagre,  sad-colored  man,  with  mutton-chop 
whiskers  so  thin  as  to  lie  like  a  shadow  on  his 
fallen  cheeks  ;  and  his  glance,  wherever  it  fell, 
seemed  to  deprecate  reproof.  Thick  layers  of 
flannel  swathed  his  throat,  and  from  time  to 
time,  he  coughed  wheezingly,  with  the  air  of 
one  who,  having  a  cold,  was  determined  to  be 
conscientious  about  it.  A  voice  from  the  but 
tery  began  pouring  forth  words  only  a  little 
slower  than  the  blackbird  sings,  and  with  no 
more  reference  to  reply. 

"  Cyrus,  don't  you  feel  a  mite  better?  Though 
I  dunno  how  you  could  expect  to,  arter  such  a 
night  as  you  had  on  't,  puffin'  an'  blowin'  !  " 
Mrs.  Pendleton  followed  the  voice.  She  seemed 
to  be  borne  briskly  in  on  its  wings,  and  came 
scudding  over  the  kitchen  sill,  carrying  a  pan  of 
freshly  sifted  flour.  She  set  it  down  on  the 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        117 

table,  and  began  "  stirrin'  up."  "  I  dunno 
where  you  got  such  a  cold,  unless  it 's  in  the 
air,"  she  continued.  "  Folks  say  they  're  round, 
nowadays,  an'  you  ketch  'em,  jest  as  you  would 
the  mumps.  But  there  !  nobody  on  your  side 
or  mine  ever  had  the  mumps,  as  long  as  I  can 
remember.  Except  Elkanah,  though  !  an'  he 
ketched  'em  down  to  Portsmouth,  when  he 
went  off  on  that  fool's  arrant  arter  elwives.  Do 
you  s'pose  you  could  eat  a  mite  o'  fish  for 
dinner?  " 

"  I  was  thinkin'  -  "  interposed  Cyrus,  mildly  ; 
but  his  wife  swept  past  him,  and  took  the  road- 

"  I  dunno  's  there 's  any  use  in  gittin'  a  real 
dinner,  jest  you  an'  me,  an'  you  not  workin' 
either.  Folks  say  there  's  more  danger  of  eatin' 
too  much  'n  too  little.  Gilman  Lane,  though, 
he  kep'  eatin'  less  an'  less,  an'  his  stomach  dried 
all  up,  till  'twa'n't  no  bigger  'n  a  bladder. 
Look  here,  you  !  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  mite  if 
you  'd  got  some  o'  them  stomach  troubles  along 
with  your  cold.  You  'ain't  acted  as  if  you  'd 
relished  a  meal  o'  victuals  for  nigh  onto  ten 
days.  Soon  as  I  git  my  hands  out  o'  the  flour, 
I  '11  look  in  the  doctor's  book,  an'  find  out. 
My  •  how  het  up  I  be  !  "  She  wiped  her  hands 
on  the  roller  towel,  and  unpinned  the  little 
plaid  shawl  drawn  tightly  across  her  shoulders. 
Its  removal  disclosed  a  green  sontag,  and  under 
that  manifold  layers  of  jacket  and  waist.  She 


1 1 8  MEADOW-GRASS. 

was  amply  protected  from  the  cold.  "  I  dunno  's 
I  ought  to  ha'  stirred  up  rye  'n'  Injun,"  she  went 
on,  returning  to  her  vigorous  tossing  and  mix 
ing  at  the  table.  "  Some  might  say  the  steam 
was  bad  for  your  lungs.  Anyhow,  the  doctor's 
book  holds  to  't  you  've  got  to  pick  out  a  dry 
climate,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  into  a  decline. 
Le'  me  see  !  when  your  Aunt  Mattie  was  took, 
how  long  was  it  afore  she  really  gi'n  up?  Arter 
she  begun  to  cough,  1  mean?  " 

Cyrus  moved  uneasily. 

"  I  dunno,"  he  said,  hastily.  "  I  never  kep' 
the  run  o'  such  things." 

But  Mirandy,  pouring  her  batter  into  the  pan, 
heeded  him  no  more  than  was  her  wont. 

"  I  s'pose  that  was  real  gallopin'  consump 
tion,"  she  said,  with  relish.  "  I  must  ask  Sister 
Sarah  how  long  'twas,  next  time  I  see  lur. 
She  set  it  down  with  the  births  an'  deaths." 

Cyrus  was  moved  to  some  remonstrance.  He 
often  felt  the  necessity  of  asserting  himself,  lest 
he  should  presently  hear  his  own  passing-bell 
and  epitaph. 

"  I  guess  you  needn't  stop  steamin'  bread 
for  me  !  I  ain't  half  so  stuffed  up  as  I  was 
yisterday  !  " 

Mrs.  Pendleton  clapped  the  loaf  into  the  pot, 
wrinkling  her  face  over  the  cloud  of  steam  that 
came  puffing  into  it. 

"  There  !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  Now  perhaps  I 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        119 

can  git  a  minute  to  se'  down.  I 'ain't  bound  a 
shoe  to-day.  My  !  who  's  that  out  this  weather  ?  " 

The  side  door  was  pushed  open,  and  then 
shut  with  a  bang.  A  vigorous  stamping  of  snow 
followed,  and  the  inner  door  swung  in  to  admit 
a  woman,  very  short,  very  stout,  with  a  round, 
apple- cheeked  face,  and  twinkling  eyes  looking 
out  from  the  enveloping  folds  of  a  gray  cloud. 

"Well  !  "  she  said,  in  a  cheery  voice,  begin 
ning  at  once  to  unwind  the  cloud,  "  here  I  be  ! 
Didn't  think  I  'd  rain  down,  did  ye  ?  I  thought 
myself,  one  spell,  I  should  freeze  afore  I  fell !  " 

Mrs.  Pendleton  hurried  forward,  wiping  her 
hands  on  her  apron  as  she  went. 

"  For  the  land's  sake,  Marthy  Wadleigh  !  " 
she  cried,  laying  hold  of  the  new-comer  by  the 
shoulders,  and  giving  her  an  ineffectual  but 
wholly  delighted  shake.  "  Well,  I  never  !  Who 
brought  you  over?  Though  I  dunno  which  way 
you  come.  I  'ain't  looked  out  — 

"  I  walked  from  the  corner,"  said  Mrs.  Wad 
leigh,  who  never  felt  any  compunction  about 
interrupting  her  old  neighbor.  She  was  unpin 
ning  her  shawl  composedly,  as  one  sure  of  a 
welcome.  "How  do,  Cyrus?  Jim  Thomas 
took  me  up  jest  beyond  the  depot,  an'  give  me 
a  lift  on  his  sled  ;  but  I  was  all  of  a  shiver,  an' 
at  the  corner,  I  told  him  he  better  let  me  step 
down  an'  walk.  So  I  come  the  rest  o'  the  way 
afoot  an'  alone.  You  ain't  goin'  to  use  the 


1 20  MEADOW-GRASS. 

oven,  be  ye  ?  I  '11  jest  stick  my  feet  in  a  min 
ute.  No,  Cyrus,  don't  you  move  !  I  '11  take 
t'other  side.  I  guess  we  sha'n't  come  to 
blows  over  it." 

She  seemed  to  have  brought  into  the  kitchen, 
with  that  freshness  of  outdoor  air  which  the 
new-comer  bears,  like  a  balsam,  in  his  garments, 
a  breath  of  fuller  life,  and  even  of  jollity.  As 
she  sat  there  in  her  good  brown  dress,  with  her 
worked  collar,  fastened  by  a  large  cameo,  her 
gold  beads  just  showing,  and  her  plump  hands 
folded  on  a  capacious  lap,  she  looked  the  picture 
of  jovial  content,  quite  able  to  take  care  of  her 
self,  and  perhaps  apply  a  sturdy  shoulder  to  the 
lagging  machinery  of  the  world. 

"  Didn't  you  git  word  I  was  comin'  this 
week?"  she  asked.  "I  sent  you  a  line." 

"  No,  we  'ain't  been  so  fur  's  the  post-office," 
answered  Mirandy,  absently.  She  was  debating 
over  her  most  feasible  bill  of  fare,  now  that  a 
"  pick-up  dinner  "  seemed  no  longer  possible. 
Moreover,  she  had  something  on  her  mind,  and 
she  could  not  help  thinking  how  unfortunate  it 
was  that  Cyrus  shared  her  secret.  Who  could 
tell  at  what  moment  he  might  broach  it?  She 
doubted  his  discretion.  "  The  roads  wa'n't 
broke  out  till  day  before  yisterday." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  they  were  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Wadleigh,  scornfully,  testing  the  heat  with  a 
hand  on  her  skirt,  and  then  lifting  the  breadths 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        121 

back  over  her  quilted  petticoat.  "  I  thought 
that  would  be  the  way  on  't,  but  I  'd  made  up 
my  mind  to  come,  an'  come  I  would.  Cyrus, 
what's  the  matter  o'  you?  Nothin'  more'n  a 
cold,  is  it?" 

Cyrus  had  withdrawn  from  the  stove,  and 
was  feeling  his  chin,  uncertainly. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  guess  not,"  he  said.  "  We  've 
been  kind  o'  peaked,  for  a  week  or  two,  all  over 
the  neighborhood  ;  but  I  guess  we  shall  come 
out  on 't,  now  we  've  got  into  the  spring. 
Mirandy,  you  git  me  a  mite  o'  hot  water,  an' 
I  '11  see  if  I  can't  shave." 

Mirandy  was  vigorously  washing  potatoes  at  the 
sink,  but  she  turned,  in  ever-ready  remonstrance. 

"  Shave  !  "  she  ejaculated.  "  Well,  I  guess  you 
won't  shave,  such  a  day  as  this,  in  that  cold  bed 
room,  with  a  stockin'-leg  round  your  throat, 
an'  all  !  You  want  to  git  your  death  ?  Why, 
'twas  only  last  night,  Marthy,  he  had  a  hemlock 
sweat,  an'  all  the  ginger  tea  I  could  git  down 
into  him  !  An'  then  I  didn't  know  — 

"  Law  !  let  him  alone  !  "  said  Marthy,  with 
a  comfortable,  throaty  laugh.  "  He  '11  feel  twice 
as  well,  git  some  o'  them  things  off  his  neck. 
Here,  Cyrus,  you  reach  me  down  your  mug  — 
ain't  them  your  shavin'  things  up  there?  —  an' 
I  '11  fill  it  for  you.  You  git  him  a  piece  o' 
flannel,  Mirandy,  to  put  on  when  he  's  washed 
up  an'  took  all  that  stuff  off  his  throat.  Why, 


1 2  2  MEADOW-GRASS. 

he  's  got  enough  wool  round  there,  if  'twas  all 
in  yarn,  to  knit  Old  Tobe  a  pair  o'  mittins  ! 
An'  they  say  one  o'  his  thumbs  was  bigger  'n 
the  hand  o'  Providence.  You  don't  want  to 
try  all  the  goodness  out  of  him,  do  ye?" 

Cyrus  gave  one  swift  glance  at  his  wife. 
"  There  !  you  see  !  "  it  said  plainly.  "  I  am  not 
without  defenders."  He  took  down  his  shav 
ing-mug,  with  an  air  of  some  bravado.  But 
Mirandy  was  no  shrew  ;  she  was  simply  troubled 
about  many  things. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  compressing  her  lips,  and 
wrinkling  her  forehead  in  resignation.  "  If 
folks  want  to  kill  themselves,  1  can't  hender 
'em  !  But  when  he  's  down  ag'in,  I  shall  be  the 
one  to  take  care  of  him,  that 's  all.  Here,  Cyrus, 
don't  you  go  into  that  cold  bedroom.  You 
shave  you  here,  if  you  're  determined  to  do  it." 

So  Cyrus,  after  honing  his  razor,  with  the 
pleasure  of  a  bored  child  provided  at  last  with 
occupation,  betook  himself  to  the  glass  set  in 
the  lower  part  of  the  clock,  and  there,  with 
much  contortion  of  his  thin  visage,  proceeded 
to  shave.  Mirandy  put  her  potatoes  on  to  boil, 
and  set  the  fish  on  the  stove  to  freshen  ;  then 
she  sat  down  by  the  window,  with  a  great 
basket  beside  her,  and  began  to  bind  shoes. 

"Here,"  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh,  coming  to  her 
feet  and  adjusting  her  skirt,  "  you  give  rne  a 
needle  !  I  Ve  got  my  thimble  right  here  in  my 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        123 

pocket.  It 's  three  months  sence  I  Ve  seen  a 
shoe.  I  should  admire  to  do  a  pair  or  two.  I 
wish  I  could  promise  ye  more,  but  somehow  I  'm 
bewitched  to  git  over  home  right  arter  dinner  !  " 

Mrs.  Pendleton  laid  down  her  work,  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair.  Cyrus  turned,  cleared 
his  throat,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Marthy,"  said  the  hostess,  "  you  ain't  goin' 
over  there  to  that  lonesome  house,  this  cold 
snap  ?  " 

"Ain't  I  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wadleigh,  composedly, 
as  she  trimmed  the  top  of  her  shoe  preparatory 
to  binding  it.  "  Well,  you  see  'f  I  ain't  !  " 

"In  the  fust  place,"  went  on  Mrs.  Pendle 
ton,  nervously,  "  the  cross-road  ain't  broke  out, 
an'  you  can't  git  there.  I  dunno  's  a  horse 
could  plough  through  ;  an'  s'posin'  they  could, 
Cyrus  ain't  no  more  fit  to  go  out  an'  carry  you 
over  'n  a  fly." 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh, 
binding  off  one  top.  "  While  I  Ve  got  my  own 
legs,  I  don't  mean  to  be  beholden  to  nobody. 
I  Ve  had  a  proper  nice  time  all  winter,  fust  with 
Lucy  an'  then  with  Ann,  —  an'  I  tell  ye  'tain't 
everybody  that  's  got  two  darters  married  so 
well !  —  but  for  the  last  fortnight,  I  Ve  been  in 
a  real  tew  to  come  home.  They  Ve  kep' 
me  till  I  wouldn't  stay  no  longer,  an'  now  I  Ve 
got  so  near  as  this,  I  guess  I  ain't  goin'  to  stop 
for  nobody  ! " 


124  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Mrs.  Pendleton  looked  despairingly  at  her 
husband ;  and  he,  absently  wiping  his  razor  on  a 
bit  of  paper,  looked  at  her. 

"  Marthy  !  "  she  burst  forth.  "  No,  Cyrus, 
don 't  you  say  one  word  !  You  can't  go  ! 
There  's  somebody  there  !  " 

Mrs.  Wadleigh,  in  turn,  put  down  her  work. 

"Somebody  there  !"  she  ejaculated.  "Where?" 

"  In  your  house  !  " 

"  In  my  house?     What  for?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Mirandy,  unhappily. 

"  Dunno?    Well,  what  are  they  doin'  there?" 

"  I  dunno  that.  We  only  know  there  's  some 
body  there." 

Here  the  brown-bread  kettle  boiled  over, 
creating  a  diversion  ;  and  Mirandy  gladly  rose 
to  set  it  further  back.  A  slight  heat  had  come 
into  Mrs.  Wadleigh's  manner. 

"  Cyrus,"  said  she,  with  emphasis,  "  I  should 
like  to  have  you  speak.  I  left  that  house  in 
your  care.  I  left  the  key  with  you,  an'  I 
should  like  to  know  who  you  've  been  an'  got  in 
there." 

Cyrus  opened  his  mouth,  and  then  closed  it 
again  without  saying  a  word.  He  looked  ap- 
pealingly  at  his  wife ;  and  she  took  up  the  tale 
with  some  joy,  now  that  the  first  plunge  had 
been  made. 

"Well,"  she  said,  folding  her  hands  in  her 
apron,  and  beginning  to  rock  back  and  forth, 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        125 

a  little  color  coming  into  her  cheeks,  and  her 
eyes  snapping  vigorously.  "  You  see,  this  was 
the  way  'twas.  Cyrus,  do  let  me  speak !  " 
Cyrus  had  ineffectually  opened  his  mouth  again. 
"  Wa'n't  it  in  November  you  went  away?  I 
thought  so.  Jest  after  that  first  sprinklin'  o' 
snow,  that  looked  as  if  'twould  lay  all  winter. 
Well,  we  took  the  key,  an'  hung  it  up  inside  the 
clock  —  an'  there  'tis  now  !  —  an'  once  a  week, 
reg'lar  as  the  day  come  round,  Cyrus  went 
over,  an'  opened  the  winders,  an'  aired  out  the 
house." 

Mrs.  Wadleigh  sat  putting  her  thimble  off 
and  on. 

"  I  know  all  about  that,"  she  interposed,  "but 
who's  in  there  now?  That's  what  I  want  to 
find  out." 

"  I  'm  comin'  to  that.  I  don't  want  to  git 
ahead  o'  my  story.  An'  so  't  went  on  till  it 
come  two  weeks  ago  Friday,  an'  Cyrus  went 
over  jest  the  same  as  ever.  An'  when  he 
hitched  to  the  gate,  he  see  smoke  comin'  out  o' 
the  chimbly,  an'  there  was  a  man's  face  at  one 
square  o'  glass."  She  paused,  enjoying  her 
climax. 

"  Well  ?  Why  don't  you  go  ahead  ?  Mirandy 
Jane  Pendleton,  I  could  shake  you  !  You  can 
talk  fast  enough  when  somebody  else  wants  the 
floor  !  How 'd  he  git  in?  What  'd  he  say  for 
himself?  " 


i26  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Why,  he  never  said  anything !  Cyrus 
didn't  see  him." 

"Didn't  see  him?  I  thought  he  see  him 
lookin'  out  the  winder  !  " 

"  Why,  yes  !  so  he  did,  but  he  didn't  see 
him  to  speak  to.  He  jest  nailed  up  the  door, 
an'  come  away." 

Mrs.  Wadleigh  turned  squarely  upon  the 
delinquent  Cyrus,  who  stood,  half-shaven,  ab 
sently  honing  his  razor. 

"  Cyrus,"  said  she,  with  an  alarming  decision, 
"  will  you  open  your  head,  an '  tell  me  what  you 
nailed  up  that  door  for?  an'  where  you  got  your 
nails  ?  I  s'pose  you  don't  carry  'em  round  with 
you,  ready  for  any  door 't  happens  to  need 
nailin'  up?  " 

This  fine  sarcasm  was  not  lost  on  Cyrus.  He 
perceived  that  he  had  become  the  victim  of  a 
harsh  and  ruthless  dealing. 

"  I  had  the  key  to  the  front  door  with  me, 
an'  I  thought  I  'd  jest  step  round  an'  nail  up 
t'  other  one,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  con 
scious  of  right.  "  There  was  some  nails  in  the 
wood-shed.  Then  I  heard  somebody  steppin' 
round  inside,  an'  I  come  away." 

"You  come  away  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Wadleigh, 
rising  in  noble  wrath.  "  You  nailed  up  the 
door  an'  come  away  !  Well,  if  you  ain't  a  weak 
sister  !  Mirandy,  you  hand  me  down  that  key, 
out  o'  the  clock,  while  I  git  my  things  !  " 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        127 

She  walked  sturdily  across  to  the  bedroom, 
and  Mirandy  followed  her,  wringing  her  hands 
in  futile  entreaty. 

"  My  soul,  Marthy  !  you  ain't  goin'  over  there  ! 
You  '11  be  killed,  as  sure  as  you  step  foot  into 
the  yard.  Don't  you  remember  how  that  hired 
man  down  to  Sudleigh  toled  the  whole  fam'ly 
out  into  the  barn,  one  arter  another,  an'  chopped 
their  heads  off — ' 

"You  gi'  me  t'  other  end  o'  my  cloud,"  com 
manded  Mrs.  Wadleigh.  "  I  'm  glad  I  've  got 
on  stockin'-feet.  Where  's  t'  other  mittin?  Oh  ! 
there  'tis,  down  by  the  sto'-leg.  Cyrus,  if  you 
knew  how  you  looked  with  your  face  plastered 
over  o'  lather,  you  'd  wipe  it  off,  an'  hand  me 
down  that  key.  Can't  you  move?  Well,  I 
guess  I  can  reach  it  myself." 

She  dropped  the  house  key  carefully  into  her 
pocket,  and  opened  the  outer  door;  both  Cyrus 
and  his  wife  knew  they  were  powerless  to  stop 
her. 

"O  Marthy,  do  come  back!"  wailed  Mrs. 
Pendleton  after  her.  "  You  'ain't  had  a  mite  o' 
dinner,  an'  you  '11  never  git  out  o'  that  house 
alive  !  " 

"  I  'd  ruther  by  half  hitch  up  myself,"  began 
Cyrus ;  but  his  wife  turned  upon  him,  at  the 
word,  bundled  him  into  the  kitchen,  and  shut 
the  door  upon  him.  Then  she  went  back  to 
her  post  in  the  doorway,  and  peered  after  Mrs. 


128  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Wadleigh's  square  figure  on  the  dazzling  road, 
with  a  melancholy  determination  to  stand  by 
her  to  the  last.  Only  when  it  occurred  to  her 
that  it  was  unlucky  to  watch  a  departing  friend 
out  of  sight,  did  she  shut  the  door  hastily,  and 
go  in  to  reproach  Cyrus  and  prepare  his  dinner. 

Mrs.  Wadleigh  plodded  steadily  onward.  Her 
face  had  lost  its  robustness  of  scorn,  and  ex 
pressed  only  a  cheerful  determination.  Once 
or  twice  her  mouth  relaxed,  in  retrospective 
enjoyment  of  the  scene  behind  her,  and  she 
gave  vent  to  a  scornful  ejaculation. 

"  A  man  in  my  house  !  "  she  said  once,  aloud. 
"  I  guess  we  '11  see  !  " 

She  turned  into  the  cross-road,  where  stood 
her  dear  and  lonely  dwelling,  with  no  neighbors 
on  either  side  for  half  a  mile,  and  stopped  a 
moment  to  gaze  about  her.  The  road  was 
almost  untravelled,  and  the  snow  lay  encrusted 
over  the  wide  fields,  sparkling  on  the  heights 
and  blue  in  the  hollows.  The  brown  bushes  by 
a  hidden  stone-wall  broke  the  sheen  entran- 
cingly ;  here  and  there  a  dry  leaf  fluttered,  but 
only  enough  to  show  how  still  such  winter  still 
ness  can  be,  and  a  flock  of  little  brown  birds 
rose,  with  a  soft  whirr,  and  settled  further  on. 
Mrs.  Wadleigh  pressed  her  lips  together  in  a 
voiceless  content,  and  her  eyes  took  on  a  new 
brightness.  She  had  lived  quite  long  enough  in 
the  town.  Rounding  a  sweeping  bend,  and 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        129 

ploughing  sturdily  along,  though  it  was  difficult 
here  to  find  the  roadway,  she  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  on  a  patch  of  sky,  over  a  low  elm,  where 
the  chimney  would  first  come  into  view.  But 
just  before  it  stepped  forward  to  meet  her,  as 
she  had  seen  it  a  thousand  times,  a  telltale  token 
forestalled  it ;  a  delicate  blue  haze  crept  out,  in 
spiral  rings,  and  tinged  the  sky. 

"  He  's  got  a  fire  !  "  she  exclaimed  loudly. 
"He  's  there  !  My  soul ! "  Until  now  the  enor 
mity  of  his  offence  had  not  penetrated  her  un 
derstanding.  She  had  heard  the  fact  without 
realizing  it. 

The  house  was  ancient  but  trimly  kept,  and 
it  stood  within  a  spacious  yard,  now  in  billows 
and  mounds  of  snow,  under  which  lay  the 
treasures  inherited  by  the  spring.  The  trel 
lises  on  either  side  the  door  held  the  bare  cling 
ing  arms  of  jessamine  and  rose,  and  the  syringa 
and  lilac  bushes  reached  hardily  aoove  the 
snow.  As  Mrs.  Wadleigh  approached  the  door, 
she  gave  a  rapid  glance  at  the  hop-pole  in  the 
garden,  and  wondered  if  its  vine  had  stood  the 
winter  well.  That  was  the  third  hop  vine  she  'd 
had  from  Mirandy  Pendleton  !  Mounting  the 
front  steps,  she  drew  forth  the  key,  and  put  it 
in  the  door.  It  turned  readily  enough,  but 
though  she  gave  more  than  one  valiant  push, 
the  door  itself  did  not  yield.  It  was  evidently 
barricaded. 

9 


1 3o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  My  soul !  "  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh. 

She  stepped  back,  to  survey  the  possibilities 
of  attack  ;  but  at  that  instant,  glancing  up  at  the 
window,  she  had  Cyrus  Pendleton's  own  alarm 
ing  experience.  A  head  looked  out  at  her,  and 
was  quickly  withdrawn.  It  was  dark,  unkempt, 
and  the  movement  was  stealthy. 

"  That 's  him  !  "  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh,  grimly, 
and  returning  to  the  charge,  she  knocked  civilly 
at  the  door.  No  answer.  Then  she  pushed 
again.  It  would  not  yield.  She  thought  of  the 
ladder  in  the  barn,  of  the  small  cellar-window ; 
vain  hopes,  both  of  them  ! 

"  Look  here  !  "  she  called  aloud.  "  You 
le'  me  in  !  I  'm  the  Widder  Wadleigh  !  This 
is  my  own  house,  an'  I  'm  real  tried  stan'in' 
round  here,  knockin'  at  my  own  front  door. 
You  le'me  in,  or  I  shall  git  my  death  o'  cold  !" 

No  answer ;  and  then  Mrs.  Wadleigh,  as  she 
afterwards  explained  it,  "got  mad."  She 
ploughed  her  way  round  the  side  of  the  house, 
—  not  the  side  where  she  had  seen  the  face,  but 
by  the  "best-room"  windows,  —  and  stepped 
softly  up  to  the  back  door.  Cyrus  Pendleton's 
nail  was  no  longer  there.  The  man  had  easily 
pushed  it  out.  She  lifted  the  latch,  and  set  her 
shoulder  against  the  panel. 

"  If  it 's  the  same  old  button,  it  '11  give,"  she 
thought.  And  it  did  give.  She  walked  steadily 
across  the  kitchen  toward  the  clock-room,  where 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        131 

the  man  that  moment  turned  to  confront  her. 
He  made  a  little  run  forward ;  then,  seeing  but 
one  woman,  he  restrained  himself.  He  was  not 
over  thirty  years  old,  a  tall,  well-built  fellow, 
with  very  black  eyes  and  black  hair.  His 
features  were  good,  but  just  now  his  mouth  was 
set,  and  he  looked  darkly  defiant.  Of  this, 
however,  Mrs.  Wadleigh  did  not  think,  for  she 
was  in  a  hot  rage. 

"  What  under  the  sun  do  you  mean,  lockin' 
me  out  o'  my  own  house  ?  "  she  cried,  stretch 
ing  out  her  reddened  hands  to  the  fire.  "  An' 
potaters  b'iled  all  over  this  good  kitchen  stove  ! 
I  declare,  this  room  's  a  real  hog's  nest,  an'  I 
left  it  as  neat  as  wax  !  " 

Perhaps  no  man  was  ever  more  amazed  than 
this  invader.  He  stood  staring  at  her  in 
silence. 

"  Can't  you  shet  the  door  !  "  she  inquired, 
fractiously,  beginning  to  untie  her  cloud.  "  An' 
put  a  stick  o'  wood  in  the  stove?  If  I  don't  git 
het  through,  I  shall  ketch  my  death  !  " 

He  obeyed,  seemingly  from  the  inertia  of 
utter  surprise.  Midway  in  the  act  of  lifting 
the  stove-cover,  he  glanced  at  her  in  sharp 
suspicion. 

"Where's  the  rest?"  he  asked,  savagely. 
"You  ain't  alone?" 

"Well,  I  guess  I'm  alone!"  returned  Mrs. 
Wadleigh,  drawing  off  her  icy  stocking-feet,  "an' 


132  MEADOW-GRASS. 

walked  all  the  way  from  Cyrus  Pendleton's  ! 
There  ain't  nobody  likely  to  be  round,"  she  con 
tinued,  with  grim  humor.  "  I  never  knew  'twas 
such  a  God-forsaken  hole,  till  I  'd  been  away 
an'  come  back  to 't.  No,  you  needn't  be 
scairt !  The  road  ain't  broke  out,  an'  if  'twas, 
we  shouldn't  have  no  callers  to-day.  It 's  got 
round  there  's  a  man  here,  an'  I  '11  warrant  the 
selec'men  are  all  sick  abed  with  colds.  But 
there  !  "  she  added,  presently,  as  the  soothing 
warmth  of  her  own  kitchen  stove  began  to 
penetrate,  "  I  dunno  's  I  oughter  call  it  a  God 
forsaken  place.  I  'm  kind  o'  glad  to  git  back." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  while 
she  toasted  her  feet,  and  the  man  stood  sham 
bling  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  furtively 
watching  her  and  the  road.  Suddenly  she  rose, 
and  lifted  a  pot-cover. 

"What  you  got  for  dinner?"  she  inquired, 
genially.  "I'm  as  holler's  a  horn!" 

"  I  put  some  potatoes  on,"  said  he,  gruffly. 

"  Got  any  pork?  or  have  you  used  it  all  up?  " 

"  I  guess  there  's  pork  !  I  'ain't  touched  it. 
I  'ain't  eat  anything  but  potatoes ;  an'  I  Ve 
chopped  wood  for  them,  an'  for  what  I  burnt." 

"Do  tell!"  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh.  She  set 
the  potatoes  forward,  where  they  would  boil 
more  vigorously.  "  Well,  you  go  down  sullar 
an'  bring  me  up  a  little  piece  o'  pork  —  streak 
o'  fat  an'  streak  o'  lean  —  an'  I  '11  fry  it. 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        133 

I  '11  sweep  up  here  a  mite  while  you  're  gone. 
Why,  I  never  see  such  a  lookin'  kitchen ! 
What's  your  name?"  she  called  after  him,  as 
he  set  his  foot  on  the  upper  stair. 

He  hesitated.     "  Joe  !  "  he  said,  falteringly. 

"All  right,  then,  Joe,  you  fly  round  an'  git 
the  pork  !  "  She  took  down  the  broom  from 
its  accustomed  nail,  and  began  sweeping  joy 
ously  ;  the  man,  fishing  in  the  pork-barrel, 
listened  meanwhile  to  the  regular  sound  above. 
Once  it  stopped,  and  he  held  his  breath  for 
a  moment,  and  stood  at  bay,  ready  to  dash  up 
the  stairs  and  past  his  pursuers,  had  she  let 
them  in.  But  it  was  only  her  own  step,  ap 
proaching  the  cellar  door. 

"  Joe  !  "  she  called.  "  You  bring  up  a  dozen 
apples,  Bald'ins.  I  '11  fry  them,  too." 

Something  past  one  o'clock,  they  sat  down 
together  to  as  strange  a  meal  as  the  little  kitchen 
had  ever  seen.  Bread  and  butter  were  lacking, 
but  there  was  quince  preserve,  drawn  from  some 
hidden  hoard,  the  apples  and  pork,  and  smok 
ing  tea.  Mrs.  Wadleigh's  spirits  rose.  Home 
was  even  better  than  her  dreams  had  pictured 
it.  She  told  her  strange  guest  all  about  her 
darter  Lucy  and  her  darter  Ann's  children ;  and 
he  listened,  quite  dazed  and  utterly  speechless. 

"  There  !  "  she  said  at  last,  rising,  "  I  dun- 
no  's  I  ever  eat  such  a  meal  o'  victuals  in  my 
life,  but  I  guess  it 's  better  'n  many  a  poor  sol- 


i34  MEADOW-GRASS. 

dier  used  to  have.  Now,  if  you  've  got  some 
wood  to  chop,  you  go  an'  do  it,  an'  I  '11  clear 
up  this  kitchen ;  it 's  a  real  hurrah's  nest,  if 
ever  there  was  one  !  " 

All  that  afternoon,  the  stranger  chopped  wood, 
pausing,  from  time  to  time,  to  look  from  the 
shed  door  down  the  country  road ;  and  Mrs. 
Wadleigh,  singing  "  Fly  like  a  Youthful,"  "  But 
O  !  their  end,  their  dreadful  end,"  and  like  mel 
odies  which  had  prevailed  when  she  "  set  in  the 
seats,"  flew  round,  indeed,  and  set  the  kitchen 
in  immaculate  order.  Evidently  her  guest  had 
seldom  left  that  room.  He  had  slept  there  on 
the  lounge.  He  had  eaten  his  potatoes  there, 
and  smoked  his  pipe. 

When  the  early  dusk  set  in,  and  Mrs.  Wad 
leigh  had  cleared  away  their  supper  of  baked 
potatoes  and  salt  fish,  again  with  libations  of 
quince,  she  drew  up  before  the  shining  stove, 
and  put  her  feet  on  the  hearth. 

"  Here  !  "  she  called  to  the  man,  who  was 
sitting  uncomfortably  on  one  corner  of  the 
woodbox,  and  eying  her  with  the  same  embar 
rassed  watchfulness.  "  You  draw  up,  too  !  It 's 
the  best  time  o'  the  day  now,  'tween  sunset  an' 
dark." 

"  I  guess  I  'd  better  be  goin',"  he  returned, 
doggedly. 

"Coin'?     Where?" 

"  I  don't  know.     But  I  'm  goin'." 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        135 

"  Now  look  here,"  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh,  with 
vigor.  "  You  take  that  chair,  an'  draw  up  to 
the  fire.  You  do  as  I  tell  you  !  " 

He  did  it. 

"  Now,  I  can't  hender  your  goin',  but  if  you 
do  go,  I  Ve  got  a  word  to  say  to  you." 

"  You  needn't  say  it !  I  don't  want  nobody's 
advice." 

"  Well,  you  've  got  to  have  it  jest  the  same  ! 
When  you  bile  potaters,  don't  you  let  'em  run 
over  onto  the  stove.  Now  you  remember ! 
I  've  had  to  let  the  fire  go  down  here,  an'  scrub 
till  I  could  ha'  cried.  Don't  you  never  do  such 
a  thing  ag'in,  wherever  you  be  !  " 

He  could  only  look  at  her.  This  sort  of 
woman  was  entirely  new  to  his  experience. 

"  But  I  've  got  somethin'  else  to  say,"  she 
continued,  adjusting  her  feet  more  comfortably. 
"  I  ain't  goin'  to  turn  anybody  out  into  the  snow, 
such  a  night  as  this.  You  're  welcome  to  stay, 
but  I  want  to  know  what  brought  ye  here.  I 
ain't  one  o'  them  that  meddles  an'  makes,  an' 
if  you  'ain't  done  nothin'  out  o'  the  way,  an'  I 
ain't  called  on  for  a  witness,  you  needn't  be 
afraid  o'  my  tellin'." 

"  You  will  be  called  on  ! "  he  broke  in, 
speaking  from  a  desperation  outside  his  own 
control.  "  It 's  murder  !  I  've  killed  a  man  !  " 
He  turned  upon  her  with  a  savage  challenge  in 
the  motion ;  but  her  face  was  set  placidly  for- 


136  MEADOW-GRASS. 

ward,  and  the  growing  dusk  had  veiled  its 
meaning. 

"  Well !  "  she  remarked,  at  length,  "  ain't  you 
ashamed  to  set  there  talkin'  about  it !  You 
must  have  brass  enough  to  line  a  kittle  !  Why 
'ain't  you  been,  like  a  man,  an'  gi'n  yourself  up, 
instid  o'  livin'  here,  turnin'  my  kitchen  upside 
down?  Now  you  tell  me  all  about  it !  It  '11  do 
ye  good." 

"  I  'm  goin',"  said  the  man,  breathing  hard 
as  he  spoke,  "  I  'm  goin'  away  from  here  to 
night.  They  never  '11  take  me  alive.  It  was 
this  way.  There  was  a  man  over  where  I  lived 
that 's  most  drunk  himself  under  ground,  but  he 
ain't  too  fur  gone  to  do  mischief.  He  told  a  lie 
about  me,  an'  lost  me  my  place  in  the  shoe 
shop.  Then  one  night,  I  met  him  goin'  home, 
an'  we  had  words.  I  struck  him.  He  fell 
like  an  ox.  I  killed  him.  I  didn't  go  home 
no  more.  I  didn't  even  see  my  wife.  I 
couldn't  tell  her.  I  couldn't  be  took  there, 
So  I  run  away.  An'  when  I  got  starved  out, 
an'  my  feet  were  most  froze  walkin',  I  see  this 
house,  all  shet  up,  an'  I  come  here." 

He  paused ;  and  the  silence  was  broken  only 
by  the  slow,  cosey  ticking  of  the  liberated 
clock. 

"Well!"  said  Mrs.  Waclleigh,  at  last,  in  a 
ruminating  tone.  "  Well !  well !  Be  you  a 
drinkin'  man?" 


MIS'  WADLEIGH'S   GUEST.        137 

"I  never  was  till  I  lost  my  job,"  he  answered, 
sullenly.  "  I  had  a  little  then.  I  had  a  little 
the  night  he  sassed  me." 

"  Well  !  well !  "  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh,  again. 
And  then  she  continued,  musingly :  "  So  I 
s'pose  you  're  Joe  Mellen,  an'  the  man  you 
struck  was  Solomon  Ray?" 

He  came  to  his  feet  with  a  spring. 

"  How  'd  you  know?  "   he  shouted. 

"  Law !  I  Ve  been  visitin'  over  Hillside 
way!"  said  Mrs.  Wadleigh,  comfortably.  "You 
couldn't  ha'  been  very  smart  not  to  thought  o' 
that  when  I  mentioned  my  darter  Lucy,  an' 
where  the  childern  went  to  school.  No  smarter  'n 
you  was  to  depend  on  that  old  wooden  button  ! 
I  know  all  about  that  drunken  scrape.  But  the 
queerest  part  on  't  was  —  Solomon  Ray  didn't 
die  !  " 

"  Didn't  die  !  "  the  words  halted,  and  he 
dragged  them  forth.  "Didn't  die?" 

"  Law,  no  !  you  can't  kill  a  Ray  !  They 
brought  him  to,  an'  fixed  him  up  in  good  shape. 
I  guess  you  mellered  him  some,  but  he  's  more 
scairt  than  hurt.  He  won't  prosecute.  You 
needn't  be  afraid.  He  said  he  dared  you  to 
it.  There,  there  now  !  I  wouldn't.  My  sake 
alive  !  le'  me  git  a  light  !  " 

For  the  stranger  sat  with  his  head  bowed  on 
the  table,  and  he  trembled  like  a  child. 


138  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Next  morning  at  eight  o'clock,  Mrs.  Wad- 
leigh  was  standing  at  the  door,  in  the  sparkling 
light,  giving  her  last  motherly  injunction  to  the 
departing  guest. 

"  You  know  where  the  depot  is?  An'  it 's  the 
nine  o'clock  train  you  've  got  to  take.  An'  you 
remember  what  I  said  about  hayin'  time.  If 
you  don't  have  no  work  by  the  middle  o'  May, 
you  drop  me  a  line,  an'  perhaps  I  can  take  you 
an'  your  wife,  too.  Lucy's  childern  al'ays  make 
a  sight  o'  work.  You  keep  that  bill  safe,  an'  — 
Here,  wait  a  minute  !  You  might  stop  at  Cyrus 
Pendleton's  —  it 's  the  fust  house  arter  you  pass 
the  corner  —  an'  ask  'em  to  put  a  sparerib  an' 
a  pat  o'  butter  into  the  sleigh,  an'  ride  over 
here  to  dinner*  You  tell  'em  I  'm  as  much 
obleeged  to  'em  for  sendin'  over  last  night  to  see 
if  I  was  alive,  as  if  I  hadn't  been  so  dead  with 
sleep  I  couldn't  say  so.  Good-bye  !  Now, 
you  mind  you  keep  tight  hold  o'  that  bill,  an' 
spend  it  prudent !  " 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN. 

"  TS  Kelup  Rivers  comin'  over  here  to-night?  " 

A  suddenly  asked  Aunt  Melissa  Adams,  peer 
ing  over  her  gold-bowed  glasses,  and  fixing  her 
small  shrewd  eyes  sharply  upon  her  niece. 

Amanda  did  not  look  up  from  her  fine  hem 
ming,  but  her  thin  hand  trembled  almost  im 
perceptibly,  and  she  gave  a  little  start,  as  if 
such  attacks  were  not  altogether  unexpected. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Dunno  !  why  don't  ye  know?"  said  her 
aunt,  beginning  to  sway  back  and  forth  in  the 
old-fashioned  rocking-chair,  but  not  once  drop 
ping  her  eyes  from  Amanda's  face.  "  Don't  he 
come  every  Saturday  night?" 

Amanda  took  another  length  of  thread,  and 
this  time  her  hand  really  shook. 

"I  guess  so,"  she  answered. 

"You  guess  so?  Don't  ye  know?  An'  if 
he  's  come  every  Saturday  night  for  fifteen  year, 
ain't  he  comin'  to-night?  I  dunno  what  makes 
you  act  as  if  you  wa'n't  sure  whether  your  soul 's 
your  own,  'Mandy  Green.  My  dander  al'ays 


140  MEADOW-GRASS. 

rises  when  I  ask  you  a  civil  question  an'  you 
put  on  that  look." 

Amanda  bent  more  closely  over  her  sewing. 
She  was  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  with  a  patheti 
cally  slender  figure,  thin  blond  hair  painstakingly 
crimped,  and  anxious  blue  eyes.  Something 
deprecating  lay  in  her  expression  ;  her  days  had 
been  uncomplainingly  sacrificed  to  the  comfort 
of  those  she  loved,  and  the  desire  of  peace  and 
good-will  had  crept  into  her  face  and  stayed 
there.  Her  mother,  who  looked  even  slighter 
than  she,  and  whose  cheeks  were  puckered  by 
wrinkles,  sat  by  the  window  watching  the  two 
with  a  smile  of  empty  content.  Old  Lady 
Green  had  lost  her  mind,  said  the  neighbors ; 
but  she  was  sufficiently  like  her  former  self  to 
be  a  source  of  unspeakable  joy  and  comfort  to 
Amanda,  who  nursed  and  petted  her  as  if  their 
positions  were  reversed,  and  protected  her  from 
the  blunt  criticism  of  the  literal-tongued  neigh 
borhood  with  a  reverential  awe  belonging  to 
the  old  days  when  the  fifth  commandment  was 
written  and  obeyed. 

"  Gold-bowed,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  with  a  look 
of  unalloyed  delight,  pointing  to  her  sister-in- 
law's  spectacles ;  and  Aunt  Melissa  repeated 
indulgently,  — 

"  Yes,  yes,  gold-bowed.  I  '11  let  you  take  'em 
a  spell,  arter  I  've  set  my  heel.  It  '11  please  her, 
poor  creatur'  !  "  she  added,  in  an  audible  aside 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         141 

to  Amanda.  Since  the  time  when  Mrs.  Green's 
wits  had  ceased  to  work  normally,  she  had  treated 
her  sympathetically,  but  from  a  lofty  eminence. 
Aunt  Melissa  was  perhaps  too  prosperous.  She 
sat  there,  swaying  back  and  forth,  in  her  thin 
black  silk  trimmed  with  narrow  rows  of  velvet, 
her  heavy  chin  sunk  upon  a  broad  collar,  worked 
in  her  youth,  and  she  seemed  to  Mrs.  Green  a 
vision  of  majesty  and  delight,  but  to  Amanda 
a  virtuous  censor,  necessarily  to  be  obeyed,  yet 
whose  presence  made  the  summer  day  intoler 
able.  Even  her  purple  cap-ribbons  bespoke 
terror  to  the  evil-doer,  and  her  heavy  face  was 
set,  as  a  judgment,  toward  the  doom  of  the 
man  who  knew  not  how  to  account  for  his 
actions.  She  began  speaking  again,  and  Amanda 
involuntarily  gave  a  little  start,  as  at  a  lightning 
flash. 

"  I  says  to  myself  when  I  drove  off,  this  morn- 
in'  :  'I  '11  have  a  little  talk  with  'Mandy.  I  don't 
go  there  to  spend  a  day  more  'n  four  times  a 
year,  an'  like  as  not  she  '11  be  glad  to  have  some 
body  to  speak  to,  seein'  's  her  mother  's  how 
she  is.'  " 

Amanda  gave  a  quick  look  at  Mrs.  Green ; 
but  the  old  lady  was  busily  pleating  the  hem 
of  her  apron  and  then  smoothing  it  out  again. 
Aunt  Melissa  rocked,  and  went  on  :  — 

"I  says  to  myself:  'Here  they  let  Kelup 
carry  on  the  farm  at  the  halves,  an'  go  racin' 


1 42  MEADOW-GRASS. 

an'  trottin'  from  the  other  place  over  here  day 
in  an'  day  out.  An'  when  his  Uncle  Nat  died, 
two  year  ago,  then  was  the  time  for  him  to 
come  over  here  an'  marry  'Mandy  an'  carry  on 
the  farm.  But  no,  he  'd  ruther  hang  round  the 
old  place,  an'  sleep  in  the  ell-chamber,  an'  do 
their  chores  for  his  board,  an'  keep  on  a-runnin' 
over  here.'  An'  when  young  Nat  married,  I 
says  to  myself,  '  That  '11  make  him  speak.'  But 
it  didn't  —  an'  you're  a  laughin'-stock,  'Mandy 
Green,  if  ever  there  was  one.  Every  time  the 
neighbors  see  him  steppin'  by  Saturday  nights, 
all  fixed  up,  with  that  brown  coat  on  he  's  had 
sence  the  year  one,  they  have  suthin'  to  say. 
'  Goin'  over  to  'Mandy's,'  that 's  what  they  say. 
An'  on'y  last  Saturday  one  on  'em  hollered  out 
to  me,  when  I  was  pickin'  a  mess  o'  pease  for 
Sunday,  '  Wonder  what  'Mandy  '11  answer  when 
he  gits  round  to  askin'  of  her?  '  I  hadn't  a  word 
to  say.  '  You  better  go  to  him,'  says  I,  at  last." 

Amanda  had  put  down  her  sewing  in  her  lap, 
and  was  looking  steadfastly  out  of  the  window, 
with  eyes  brimmed  by  two  angry  tears.  Once 
she  wiped  them  with  a  furtive  movement  of 
the  white  garment  in  her  lap ;  her  cheeks  were 
crimson.  Aunt  Melissa  had  lashed  herself  into 
a  cumulative  passion  of  words. 

"  An'  I  says  to  myself,  '  If  there  ain't  nobody 
else  to  speak  to  'Mandy,  I  will,'  I  says,  when  I 
was  combin'  my  hair  this  mornin'.  '  She  'ain't 


A  RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         143 

got  no  mother,'  I  says,  '  nor  as  good  as  none, 
an'  if  she  'ain't  spunk  enough  to  look  out  for 
herself,  somebody  's  got  to  look  out  for  her.' 
An'  then  it  all  come  over  me  —  I  'd  speak  to 
Kelup  himself,  an'  bein'  Saturday  night,  I  knew 
I  should  ketch  him  here." 

"  O  Aunt  Melissa  !  "  gasped  Amanda,  "  you 
wouldn't  do  that !  " 

"  Yes,  I  would,  too  !  "  asserted  Aunt  Melissa, 
setting  her  firm  lips.  "  You  see  if  I  don't,  an' 
afore  another  night  goes  over  my  head  !  " 

But  while  Amanda  was  looking  at  her,  para 
lyzed  with  the  certainty  that  no  mortal  aid  could 
save  her  from  this  dire  extremity,  there  came 
an  unexpected  diversion.  Old  Lady  Green 
spoke  out  clearly  and  decidedly  from  her 
corner,  in  so  rational  a  voice  that  it  seemed 
like  one  calling  from  the  dead. 

"  'Mancly,  what  be  you  cryin'  for?  You 
come  here  an'  tell  me  what  'tis,  an'  I  '11  see 
to  't.  You  '11  spile  your  eyes,  'Mandy,  if  you 
take  on  so." 

"  There,  there,  ma'am  !  'tain't  anything," 
said  Amanda,  hurrying  over  to  her  chair  and 
patting  her  on  the  shouldei.  "We  was  just 
havin'  a  little  spat,  —  Aunt  Melissa  an'  me  ;  but 
we  Ve  got  all  over  it.  Don't  you  want  to  knit 
on  your  garter  a  little  while  now?" 

But  the  old  lady  kept  her  glazed  eyes  fixed 
on  Amanda's  face. 


144  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"Be  you  well  to-day,  'Mandy?"  she  said, 
wistfully.  "  If  you  ain't  well,  you  must  take 
suthin'." 

"  There,  there  !  don't  you  make  a  to-do, 
an'  she  '11  come  round  all  right,"  said  Aunt 
Melissa,  moving  her  chair  about  so  that  it  faced 
the  old  lady.  "  I  '11  tell  her  suthin'  to  take  up 
her  mind  a  little."  And  she  continued,  in  the 
loud  voice  which  was  her  concession  to  Mrs. 
Green's  feebleness  of  intellect,  "  They  Ve  got 
a  boarder  over  to  the  Blaisdells'." 

Mrs.  Green  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair, 
smoothed  her  apron,  and  looked  at  her  sister 
with  grateful  appreciation. 

"  Do  tell !  "  she  said,  primly. 

"  Yes,  they  have.  Name  's  Chapman.  They 
thought  he  was  a  book  agent  fust.  But  he  's 
buyin'  up  old  dishes  an'  all  matter  o'  truck. 
He  wanted  my  andirons,  an'  I  told  him  if  I 
hadn't  got  a  son  in  a  Boston  store,  he  might 
ha'  come  round  me,  but  I  know  the  vally  o' 
things  now.  You  don't  want  to  sell  them  blue 
coverlids  o'  yourn,  do  ye?  " 

Aunt  Melissa  sometimes  asked  the  old  lady 
questions  from  a  sense  of  the  requirements  of 
conversation,  and  she  was  invariably  startled 
when  they  elicited  an  answer. 

"  Them  coverlids  I  wove  myself,  fifty-five 
years  ago  come  next  spring,"  said  Mrs.  Green, 
firmly.  "  Sally  Ann  Mason  an'  me  used  to  set 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         145 

up  till  the  clock  struck  twelve  that  year,  spin- 
nin'  an'  weavin'.  Then  we  had  a  cup  or  two  o' 
green  tea,  an'  went  to  bed." 

"  Well,  you  wove  'em,  an'  you  don't  want  to 
sell  'em,"  said  Aunt  Melissa,  her  eyes  on  her 
work.  "  If  you  do,  'Lijah  he  '11  take  'em  right 
up  to  Boston  for  you,  an'  I  warrant  he  '11  git 
you  a  new  white  spread  for  every  one  on  'em." 

"  That  was  the  year  afore  I  was  married," 
continued  Old  Lady  Green.  "  I  had  a  set  o' 
white  chiny  with  lavender  sprigs,  an'  my  dress 
was  changeable.  He  had  a  flowered  weskit. 
'Mandy,  you  go  into  the  clo'es-press  in  my 
bedroom  an'  git  out  that  weskit,  an'  some  o' 
them  quilts,  an'  my  M's  an'  O's  table-cloths." 

Amanda  rose  and  hurried  into  the  bedroom, 
in  spite  of  Aunt  Melissa's  whispered  comment : 
"  What  makes  you  go  to  overhaulin'  things  ? 
She  '11  forgit  it  in  a  minute." 

While  she  was  absent,  a  smart  wagon  drove 
up  to  the  gate,  and  a  young  man  alighted  from 
it,  hitched  his  horse,  and  knocked  at  the  front 
door.  Aunt  Melissa  saw  him  coming,  and 
peered  at  him  over  her  glasses  with  an  unrec- 
ognizing  stare. 

"  'Mandy  !  "  she  called,  "  'Mandy,  here  's  a 
pedler  or  suthin'  !  If  he 's  got  any  essences, 
you  ask  him  for  a  little  bottle  o'  pep'mint." 

Amanda  dropped  the  pile  of  coverlets  on  the 
sofa,  and  went  to  the  front  door.  Presently  she 


146  MEADOW-GRASS. 

reappeared,  and  with  her,  smoothly  talking  her 
down,  came  the  young  man.  His  eyes  lighted 
first  on  the  coverlets,  with  a  look  of  cheerful 
satisfaction. 

"Got  all  ready  for  me,  didn't  you?"  he 
asked,  briskly.  "  Heard  I  was  coming,  I 
guess." 

He  was  a  man  of  an  alert  Yankee  type,  with 
waxed  blond  mustache  and  eye-glasses  ;  he  was 
evidently  to  be  classed  among  those  who  have 
exchanged  their  country  honesty  for  a  veneer 
of  city  knowingness. 

"  For  the  land's  sake  !  "  ejaculated  Aunt  Me 
lissa,  as  soon  as  she  had  him  at  short  range, 
"  you  're  the  one  down  to  BlaisdelPs  that 's 
buyin'  up  all  the  old  truck  in  the  neighborhood. 
Well,  you  won't  git  my  andirons  !  " 

He  had  begun  to  unfold  the  blue  coverlets 
and  examine  them  with  a  practised  eye,  while 
Amanda  stood  by,  painfully  conscious  that  some 
decisive  action  might  be  required  of  her ;  and 
her  mother  sat  watching  the  triumph  of  her 
quilts  in  pleased  importance. 

"  They  ain't  worth  much,"  he  said,  dropping 
them,  with  a  conclusive  air.  "  Fact  is,  they  ain't 
worth  anything,  unless  anybody  's  got  a  fancy 
for  such  old  stuff.  I  '11  tell  you  what,  I  '11  give 
you  fifty  cents  apiece  for  the  lot !  How  many 
are  there  here  —  four?  Two  dollars,  then." 

Amanda  took  a  hasty  step  forward. 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         147 

"  But  we  don't  want  to  sell  our  coverlids  !  " 
she  said,  indignantly,  casting  an  appealing  glance 
at  Aunt  Melissa. 

"  I  guess  they  don't  want  to  git  rid  on  'em," 
said  that  lady,  "  'specially  at  such  a  price. 
They  're  wuth  more  'n  that  to  cover  up  the 
squashes  when  the  frost  comes." 

"  Mother  wove  'em  herself,"  exclaimed 
Amanda,  irrelevantly.  It  began  to  seem  to  her 
as  if  the  invader  might  pack  up  her  mother's 
treasures  and  walk  off  with  them. 

"  Well,  then,  I  s'pose  they  're  hers  to  do  as 
she  likes  with?"  he  said,  pleasantly,  tipping 
back  in  his  chair,  and  beginning  to  pare  his 
nails  with  an  air  of  nicety  that  fascinated 
Amanda  into  watching  him.  "  They  're  hers,  I 
s'pose?  "he  continued,  looking  suddenly  and 
keenly  up  at  her. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  answered,  "  they  're  mother's, 
but  she  don't  want  to  sell.  She  sets  by  'em." 

"  Just  like  me,  for  all  the  world,"  owned  the 
stranger.  "  Now  there  's  plenty  of  folks  that 
wouldn't  care  a  Hannah  Cook  about  such  old 
truck,  but  it  just  hits  me  in  the  right  spot. 
Mother's  doughnuts,  mothers  mince-pies,  I 
say  !  Can't  improve  on  them  !  And  when  my 
wife  and  I  bought  our  little  place,  I  said  to  her, 
'  We  '11  have  it  all  furnished  with  old-fashioned 
goods.'  And  here  I  am,  taking  time  away  from 
my  business,  riding  round  the  country,  and  pay- 


148  MEADOW-GRASS. 

ing  good  money  for  what 's  no  use  to  anybody 
but  me." 

"What  is  your  business?"  interrupted  Aunt 
Melissa. 

"  Oh,  insurance  —  a  little  of  everything  — 
Jack-of-all-trades  !  "  Then  he  turned  to  Old 
Mrs.  Green,  and  asked,  abruptly,  "  What  '11  you 
take  for  that  clock?" 

The  old  lady  followed  his  alert  forefinger 
until  her  eyes  rested  on  the  tall  eight-day  clock 
in  the  corner.  She  straightened  herself  in  her 
chair,  and  spoke  with  pride  :  — 

"  That  was  Jonathan's  gre't-uncle  Samwell's. 
He  wound  it  every  Sunday  night,  reg'lar  as 
the  day  come  round.  I  've  rubbed  that  case  up 
till  I  sweat  like  rain.  'Mandy  she  rubs  it  now." 

"Well,  what '11  you  take?"  persisted  he, 
while  Amanda,  in  wordless  protest,  stepped  in 
front  of  the  clock.  "Five  dollars?" 

"  Five  dollars,"  repeated  the  old  lady,  laps 
ing  into  senseless  iteration.  "  Yes,  five  dollars." 

But  Aunt  Melissa  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Five  dollars  for  that  clock?  "  she  repeated, 
winding  her  ball,  and  running  the  needles  into 
it  with  a  conclusive  stab.  "  Well,  I  guess  there 
ain't  any  eight- day  clocks  goin'  out  o'  this  house 
for  five  dollars,  if  they  go  at  all !  'Mandy,  why 
don't  you  speak  up,  an'  not  stand  there  like  a 
chicken  with  the  pip  ?  " 

"  Oh,  all   right,   all   right  !  "  said  the  visitor, 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.        149 

shutting  his  knife  with  a  snap,  and  getting 
briskly  on  his  feet.  "  I  don't  care  much  about 
buying.  That  ain't  a  particularly  good  style  of 
clock,  anyway.  But  I  like  old  things.  I  may 
drop  in  again,  just  to  take  a  look  at  'em.  I 
suppose  you're  always  at  home?"  he  said  to 
Amanda,  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Yes ;  but  sometimes  I  go  to  Sudleigh  with 
butter.  I  go  Monday  afternoons  most  always, 
after  washin'." 

With  a  cheerful  good- day  he  was  gone,  and 
Amanda  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  Well,  some  folks  have  got  enough  brass  to 
line  a  kittle,"  said  Aunt  Melissa,  carefully  fold 
ing  her  knitting-work  in  a  large  silk  handker 
chief.  "  'Mandy,  you  '11  have  to  git  supper  a 
little  earlier  'n  common  for  me.  I  told  Hiram 
to  come  by  half  arter  six.  Do  you  s'pose 
Keiup'll  be  round  by  that  time?  I '11  wait  all 
night  afore  I  '11  give  up  seein'  him  !  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Aunt  Melissa,"  said  Amanda, 
nervously  clearing  the  table  of  its  pile  of  snowy 
cloth,  and  taking  a  flying  glance  from  the  win 
dow.  She  looked  like  a  harassed  animal,  hunted 
beyond  its  endurance ;  but  suddenly  a  strange 
light  of  determination  flashed  into  her  face. 
"  Should  you  just  as  lieves  set  the  table,"  she 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  guilty  consciousness,  "  while 
I  start  the  kitchen  fire  ?  You  know  where  things 
are."  Hardly  waiting  for  an  assent,  she  fled 


150  MEADOW-GRASS. 

from  the  room,  and  once  in  the  kitchen,  laid 
the  fare  in  haste,  with  a  glance  from  the  window 
to  accompany  every  movement.  Presently,  by 
a  little  path  through  the  field,  came  a  stocky 
man  in  blue  overalls  and  the  upper  garment 
known  as  a  jumper.  He  was  bound  for  the 
pigpen  in  the  rear  of  the  barn ;  and  there 
Amanda  flew  to  meet  him,  stopping  only  to 
throw  an  apron  over  her  head.  They  met  at 
the  door.  He  was  a  fresh-colored  man,  with 
honest  brown  eyes  and  a  ring  of  whiskers  under 
the  chin.  He  had  a  way  of  blushing,  and  when 
Amanda  came  upon  him  thus  unannounced,  he 
colored  to  the  eyes. 

"  Why,  you  're  all  out  o'  breath  !  "  he  said, 
in  slow  alarm. 

"  O  Caleb  !  "  she  cried,  looking  at  him  with 
imploring  eyes,  "  I  '11  feed  the  pigs  to-night." 

Caleb  regarded  her  in  dull  wonderment. 
Then  he  set  down  the  pail  he  had  taken. 

"Ain't  there  any  taters  to  bile?"  he  asked, 
solving  the  difficulty  in  his  own  way;  "or  'ain't 
you  skimmed  the  milk?  I'd  jest  as  soon 
wait." 

"  You  better  not  wait,"  answered  Amanda, 
almost  passionately,  her  thin  hair  blowing  about 
her  temples.  "  You  better  go  right  back.  I  'd 
ruther  do  it  myself;  I  'd  a  good  deal  ruther." 

Caleb  turned  about.  He  took  a  few  steps, 
then  stopped,  and  called  hesitatingly  over  his 


A    RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         151 

shoulder,  "  I  thought  maybe  I  'd  come  an'  set 
a  spell  to-night." 

Then,  indeed,  Amanda  felt  her  resolution 
crack  and  quiver.  "  I  guess  you  better  come 
some  other  night,"  she  said,  in  a  steady  voice, 
though  her  face  was  wet  with  tears.  And  Caleb 
walked  away,  never  once  looking  back.  Amanda 
stayed  only  to  wipe  her  eyes,  saying  meanwhile 
to  her  sorry  self,  "  Oh,  I  dunno  how  I  can  get 
along  !  I  dunno  !  "  Then  she  hurried  back  to 
the  house,  to  find  the  kettle  merrily  singing, 
and  Aunt  Melissa  standing  at  the  kitchen  cup 
board,  looking  critically  up  and  down  the 
shelves. 

•'If  you've  got  two  sets  o'  them  little  gem- 
pans,  you  might  lend  me  one,"  she  remarked  ; 
and  Amanda  agreed,  not  knowing  what  she 
gave. 

The  supper  was  eaten  and  the  dishes  were 
washed,  Aunt  Melissa  meantime  keeping  a  strict 
watch  from  the  window. 

"  Is  it  time  for  Kelup?  "  she  asked,  again  and 
again ;  and  finally  she  confronted  the  guilty 
Amanda  with  the  challenge,  "  Do  you  think 
Kelup  ain't  comin'?" 

''I — guess  not,"  quavered  Amanda,  her 
cheeks  scarlet,  and  her  small,  pathetic  hands 
trembling.  She  was  not  more  used  to  finesse 
than  to  heroic  action. 

"  Do   you    s'pose    there 's  any    on   'em   sick 


152  MEADOW-GRASS. 

down  to  young  Nat's?"  asked  Aunt  Melissa; 
and  Amanda  was  obliged  to  take  recourse  again 
to  her  shielding  "  I  guess  not."  But  at  length 
Uncle  Hiram  drove  up  in  the  comfortable  carry 
all  ;  and  though  his  determined  spouse  detained 
him  more  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  sitting 
beside  him  like  a  portly  Rhadamanthus,  and 
scanning  the  horizon  for  the  Caleb  who  never 
came,  he  finally  rebelled,  shook  the  reins,  and 
drove  off,  Aunt  Melissa  meantime  screaming 
over  her  shoulder  certain  vigorous  declarations, 
which  evidently  began  with  the  phrase,  "  You 
tell  Kelup —  " 

Then  Amanda  went  into  the  house,  and  sat 
down  by  the  window  in  the  gathering  dusk,  sur 
veying  the  wreckage  of  her  dream.  The  dream 
was  even  more  precious  in  that  it  had  grown  so 
old.  Caleb  was  a  part  of  her  every-day  life, 
and  for  fifteen  years  Saturday  had  brought  a 
little  festival,  wherein  the  commonplace  man 
with  brown  eyes  had  been  high-priest.  He 
would  not  come  to-night.  Perhaps  he  never 
would  come  again.  She  knew  what  it  was  to 
feel  widowed. 

Sunday  passed ;  and  though  Caleb  fed  the 
pigs  and  did  the  barn-work  as  usual,  he  spoke 
but  briefly.  Even  in  his  customary  salutation 
of  "  How  dee?  "  Amanda  detected  a  change  of 
tone,  and  thereafter  took  flight  whenever  she 
heard  his  step  at  the  kitchen  door.  So  Monday 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.        153 

forenoon  passed ;  Caleb  brought  water  for  her 
tubs  and  put  out  her  clothes-line,  but  they  had 
hardly  spoken.  The  intangible  monster  of  a 
misunderstanding  had  crept  between  them.  But 
when  at  noon  he  asked  as  usual,  though  without 
looking  at  her,  "  Coin'  to  Sudleigh  with  the 
butter  to-day?"  Amanda  had  reached  the  limit 
of  her  endurance.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  no  longer  bear  this  formal  travesty  of  their 
old  relations,  and  she  answered  in  haste, — 

"  No,  I  guess  not." 

"  Then  you  don't  want  I  should  set  with  your 
mother?  " 

"  No  !  "  And  again  Caleb  turned  away,  and 
plodded  soberly  off  to  young  Nat's. 

"  I  guess  I  must  be  crazy,"  groaned  poor 
Amanda,  as  she  changed  her  washing-dress  for 
her  brown  cashmere.  "  The  butter  's  got  to  go, 
an'  now  I  shall  have  to  harness,  an'  leave  ma'am 
alone.  Oh,  I  wish  Aunt  Melissa  'd  never  dark 
ened  these  doors  !  " 

Everything  went  wrong  with  Amanda,  that 
day.  The  old  horse  objected  to  the  bits,  and 
occupied  twenty  minutes  in  exasperating  pro 
test  ;  the  wheels  had  to  be  greased,  and  she 
lost  a  butter-napkin  in  the  well.  Finally,  breath 
less  with  exertion,  she  went  in  to  bid  her  mother 
good-by,  and  see  that  the  matches  were  hidden 
and  the  cellar  door  fastened. 

"  Now,  ma'am,"  she  said,  standing  over  the 


154  MEADOW-GRASS. 

little  old  woman  and  speaking  with  great  dis 
tinctness,  "  don't  you  touch  the  stove,  will  you  ? 
You  jest  set  right  here  in  your  chair  till  I  come 
back,  an'  I  '11  bring  you  a  good  parcel  o'  pep1- 
mints.  Here 's  your  garter  to  knit  on,  an* 
here  's  the  almanac.  Don't  you  stir  now  till  I 
come." 

And  so,  with  many  misgivings,  she  drove 
away. 

When  Amanda  came  back,  she  did  not  stay 
to  unharness,  but  hurried  up  to  the  kitchen  door, 
and  called,  "You.  all  right,  ma'am?"  There 
was  no  answer,  and  she  stepped  hastily  across 
the  floor.  As  she  opened  the  sitting-room  door, 
a  low  moaning  struck  her  ear.  The  old  lady  sat 
huddled  together  in  her  chair,  groaning  at  inter 
vals,  and  looking  fixedly  at  the  corner  of  the 
room. 

"  O  ma'am,  what  is  it  ?  Where  be  you 
hurt?  "  cried  Amanda,  possessed  by  an  anguish 
of  self-reproach.  But  the  old  lady  only  con 
tinued  her  moaning ;  and  then  it  was  that 
Amanda  noticed  her  shrivelled  and  shaking 
fingers  tightly  clasped  upon  a  roll  of  money  in 
her  lap. 

"Why,  ma'am,  what  you  got?"  she  cried; 
but  even  as  she  spoke,  the  explanation  flashed 
upon  her,  and  she  looked  up  at  the  corner  of 
the  room.  The  eight-day  clock  was  gone. 

"  Here,  ma'am,  you  let  me  have  it,"  she  said, 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         155 

soothingly ;  and  by  dint  of  further  coaxing,  she 
pulled  the  money  from  the  old  lady's  tense 
fingers.  There  were  nine  dollars  in  crisp  new 
bills.  Amanda  sat  looking  at  them  in  unbelief 
and  misery. 

"  O  my  !  "  she  whispered,  at  length,  "  what 
a  world  this  is  !  Ma'am,  did  you  tell  him  he 
might  have  'em?  " 

"  I  dunno  what  Jonathan  '11  do  without  that 
clock,"  moaned  the  old  lady.  "  I  see  it  carried 
off  myself." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  he  might?  "  cried  Amanda, 
loudly. 

"  I  dunno  but  I  did,  but  I  never  'd  ha' 
thought  he  'd  ha'  done  it.  I  dunno  what  time 
'tis  now;"  and  she  continued  her  low- voiced 
lamenting. 

"  O  my  Lord  !  "  uttered  Amanda,  under  her 
breath.  Then  she  roused  herself  to  the  present 
exigency  of  comfort.  "  You  come  an'  set  in  the 
kitchen  a  spell,"  she  said,  coaxingly,  "an*  I'll 
go  an'  get  the  things  back." 

Old  Lady  Green  looked  at  her  with  that  un 
questioning  trust  which  was  the  most  pathetic 
accompaniment  of  her  state.  "  You  '11  git  'em 
back,  'Mandy,  won't  ye?  she  repeated,  smiling 
a  little  and  wiping  her  eyes.  "  That 's  a  good 
gal !  So  't  we  can  tell  what  time  'tis." 

Amanda  led  her  into  the  kitchen,  and  estab 
lished  her  by  the  window.  She  shut  the  door 


156  MEADOW-GRASS. 

of  the  denuded  sitting-room,  and,  giving  her 
courage  no  time  to  cool,  ran  across  lots  to  the 
Blaisdells',  the  hated  money  clasped  tightly  in 
her  hand.  The  family  was  at  supper,  and  the 
stranger  with  them,  when  she  walked  in  at  the 
kitchen  door.  She  hurried  up  to  her  enemy, 
and  laid  the  little  roll  of  bills  by  his  plate.  Her 
cheeks  were  scarlet,  her  thin  hair  flying. 

"  Here  's  your  money,"  she  said,  in  a  strained, 
high  voice,  "  an'  I  want  our  things.  You  hadn't 
ought  to  gone  over  there  an'  talked  over  an  old 
lady  that  — that  — " 

There  she  stopped.  Amanda  had  never  yet 
acknowledged  that  her  mother  was  not  in  her 
"perfect  mind."  Chapman  took  out  a  long 
pocket-book,  and  for  a  moment  her  courage 
stood  at  flood-tide  ;  she  thought  he  was  about 
to  accept  the  money  and  put  it  away.  But  no  ! 
He  produced  a  slip  of  white  paper  and  held  it 
up  before  her.  She  bent  forward  and  examined 
it,  —  a  receipt  signed  by  her  mother's  shaking 
hand. 

"  But  it  ain't  right !  "  she  cried,  helpless  in 
her  dismay.  "  Cap  'n  Jabez,  you  speak  to 
him  !  You  know  how  'tis  about  mother  !  She 
wouldn't  any  more  ha'  sold  that  clock  than 
she'd  ha'  sold  — me!" 

Captain  Jabez  looked  at  his  plate  in  uncom 
fortable  silence.  He  was  a  just  man,  but  he 
hated  to  interfere. 


A  RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         157 

"  Well,  there  !  "  he  said,  at  length,  pushing  his 
chair  back  to  leave  the  table.  "  It  don't  seem 
jestly  right  to  me,  but  then  he  's  got  the  resate, 
an'  your  mother  signed  it  —  an'  there  'tis  !  " 

"An'  you  won't  do  anything  ?  "  cried  Amanda, 
passionately,  turning  back  to  the  stranger.  "You 
mean  to  keep  them  things?  " 

He  was  honestly  sorry  for  her,  as  the  business 
man  for  the  sentimentalist,  but  he  had  made  a 
good  bargain,  and  he  held  it  sacred. 

"  I  declare,  I  wish  it  hadn't  happened  so," 
he  said,  good-naturedly.  "  But  the  old  lady  '11 
get  over  it.  You  buy  her  a  nice  bright  little 
nickel  clock  that  '11  strike  the  half-hours,  and 
she  '11  be  tickled  to  death  to  watch  it." 

Amanda  turned  away  and  walked  out  of  the 
house. 

"Here,"  called  Chapman,  "come  back  and 
get  your  money  !  "  But  she  hurried  on.  "  Well, 
I  '11  leave  it  with  Captain  Jabez,"  he  called  again, 
"  and  you  can  come  over  and  get  it.  I  'm  going 
in  the  morning,  early." 

Amanda  was  passing  the  barn,  and  there, 
through  the  open  door,  she  saw  the  old  clock 
pathetically  loaded  on  the  light  wagon,  pro 
tected  by  burlap,  and  tied  with  ropes.  The 
coverlets  lay  beside  it.  A  sob  rose  in  her  throat, 
but  her  eyes  were  dry,  and  she  hurried  across 
lots  home.  At  the  back  door  she  found 
Caleb  unharnessing  the  horse.  She  had  for- 


1 5  8  MEADOW-GRASS. 

gotten  their  misunderstanding  in  the  present 
practical  emergency. 

"  O  Caleb,"  she  began,  before  she  had 
reached  him,  "  ma'am  's  sold  the  clock  an'  some 
coverlids,  an'  I  can't  get  'em  back  !  " 

"Cap'n  Jabez  said  she  had,  this  arternoon," 
said  Caleb,  slowly,  tying  a  trace.  "  I  dunno  's 
the  old  lady  's  to  blame.  Seem  's  if  she  hadn't 
ought  to  be  left  alone." 

" But  how 'm  I  goin'  to  get  'em  back? "  per 
sisted  Amanda,  coming  close  to  him,  her  poor 
little  face  pinched  and  eager.  "  He  jest  showed 
me  the  receipt,  all  signed.  How  'm  I  goin'  to 
get  the  things,  Caleb?" 

"  If  he  's  got  the  receipt,  an'  the  things  an'  all, 
an'  she  took  the  money,  I  dunno  's  you  can  get 
'em,"  said  Caleb,  "unless  you  could  prove  in  a 
court  o'  law  that  she  wa'n't  in  her  right  mind. 
I  dunno  how  that  would  work." 

Amanda  stood  looking  him  in  the  face.  For 
the  first  time  in  all  her  gentle  life  she  was  ques 
tioning  masculine  superiority,  and  its  present 
embodiment  in  Caleb  Rivers. 

"  Then  you  don't  see 's  anything  can  be 
done?"  she  asked,  steadily. 

"Why,  no,"  answered  Caleb,  still  reflecting. 
"  Not  unless  you  should  go  to  law." 

"You'd  better  give  the  pigs  some  shorts," 
said  Amanda,  abruptly.  "  I  sha'n't  bile  any 
taters  to-night." 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         159 

She  walked  into  the  house  ;  and  as  Caleb 
watched  her,  it  crossed  his  mind  that  she  looked 
very  tall.  He  had  always  thought  of  her  as  a 
little  body. 

Amanda  set  her  lips,  and  went  about  her 
work.  From  time  to  time,  she  smiled  mechan 
ically  at  her  mother  ;  and  the  old  lady,  forgetful 
of  her  grief  now  that  she  was  no  longer  re 
proached  by  the  empty  space  on  the  wall,  sat 
content  and  sleepy  after  her  emotion.  She  was 
willing  to  go  to  bed  early ;  and  when  Amanda 
heard  her  breathing  peacefully,  she  sat  down  by 
the  kitchen  window  to  wait.  The  dusk  came 
slowly,  and  the  whippoonvill  sang  from  the  deep 
woods  behind  the  house. 

That  night  at  ten  o'clock,  Caleb  Rivers  was 
walking  stolidly  along  the  country  road,  when 
his  ear  became  aware  of  a  strangely  familiar 
sound,  —  a  steadily  recurrent  creak.  It  was 
advancing,  though  intermittently.  Sometimes  it 
ceased  altogether,  as  if  the  machinery  stopped 
to  rest,  and  again  it  began  fast  and  shrill.  He 
rounded  a  bend  of  the  road,  and  came  full 
upon  a  remarkable  vision.  Approaching  him 
was  a  wheelbarrow,  with  a  long  object  balanced 
across  it,  and,  wheeling  it,  walked  a  woman. 
Caleb  was  nearly  opposite  her  before  his  brain 
translated  the  scene.  Then  he  stopped  short 
and  opened  his  lips. 

"  "Mandy,"  he  cried,  "what  under  the  heavens 
be  you  a-doin'?  " 


160  MEADOW-GRASS. 

But  Amanda  did  not  pause.  Whatever  emo 
tion  the  meeting  caused  in  her  was  swiftly  van 
quished,  and  she  wheeled  on.  Caleb  turned 
and  walked  by  her  side.  When  he  had  recov 
ered  sufficiently  from  his  surprise,  he  laid  a 
hand  upon  her  wrist. 

"  You  set  it  down,  an"  let  me  wheel  a  spell," 
he  said. 

But  Amanda's  small  hands  only  grasped  the 
handles  more  tightly,  and  she  went  on.  Caleb 
had  never  in  his  life  seen  a  necessity  for  pas 
sionate  remonstrance,  but  now  the  moment  had 
come. 

"  'Mandy,"  he  kept  repeating,  at  every  step, 
"  you  give  me  holt  o'  them  handles  !  Why, 
'Mandy,  I  should  think  you  was  crazy  !  " 

At  length,  Amanda  dropped  the  handles  with 
a  jerk,  and  turning  about,  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  wheelbarrow,  evidently  to  keep  the  right 
of  possession.  Then  she  began  to  speak  in  a 
high,  strained  voice,  that  echoed  sharply  through 
the  country  stillness. 

"  If  you  Ve  got  to  know,  I  '11  tell  you,  an' 
you  can  be  a  witness,  if  you  want  to.  It  won't 
do  no  hurt  in  a  court  o'  law,  because  I  shall 
tell  myself.  I  Ve  gone  an'  got  our  clock  an' 
our  coverlids  from  where  they  were  stored  in 
the  Blaisdells'  barn.  The  man  's  got  his  money, 
an'  I  Ve  took  our  things.  That 's  all  I  Ve  done, 
an'  anybody  can  know  it  that 's  a  mind  to." 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         161 

Then  she  rose,  lifted  the  handles,  and  went 
on,  panting.  Caleb  walked  by  her  side. 

"But  you  ain't  afraid  o'  me,  'Mandy?"he 
said,  imploringly.  "  Jest  you  let  me  wheel  it, 
.an'  I  won't  say  a  word  if  I  never  set  eyes  on 
you  ag'in.  Jest  you  let  me  wheel,  'Mandy." 

"  There  ain't  anybody  goin'  to  touch  a  finger 
to  it  but  me,"  said  Amanda,  shortly.  "  If  any 
body  's  got  to  be  sent  to  jail  for  it,  it  '11  be  me. 
I  can't  talk  no  more.  I  'ain't  got  any  breath 
to  spare." 

But  the  silence  of  years  had  been  broken, 
and  Caleb  kept  on. 

"  Why,  I  was  goin'  over  to  Blaisdell's  myself 
to  buy  'em  back.  Here  's  my  wallet  an'  my 
bank-book.  Don't  that  prove  it?  I  was  goin' 
to  pay  any  price  he  asked.  I  set  an'  mulled 
over  it  all  the  evenin'.  It  got  late,  an'  then  I 
started.  It  al'ays  has  took  me  a  good  long 
spell  to  make  up  my  mind  to  things.  I  wa'n't 
to  blame  this  arternoon  because  I  couldn't  tell 
what  was  best  to  do  all  of  a  whew  ! " 

At  the  beginning  of  this  revelation,  Amanda's 
shoulders  twitched  eloquently,  but  she  said 
nothing.  She  reached  the  gate  of  the  farm 
yard,  and  wheeled  in,  panting  painfully  as  she 
ascended  the  rise  of  the  grassy  driveway.  She 
toiled  round  to  the  back  door ;  and  then  Caleb 
saw  that  she  had  prepared  for  her  return  by 
leaving  the  doors  of  the  cellar-case  open,  and 
ii 


1 62  MEADOW-GRASS. 

laying  down  a  board  over  the  steps.  She  turned 
the  wheelbarrow  to  descend ;  and  Caleb,  seeing 
his  opportunity,  ran  before  to  hold  back  its 
weight.  Amanda  did  not  prevent  him ;  she 
had  no  breath  left  for  remonstrance.  When  the 
clock  was  safely  in  the  cellar,  she  went  up  the 
steps  again,  hooked  the  bulkhead  door,  and 
turned,  even  in  the  darkness,  unerringly  to  the 
flight  of  stairs. 

"  You  wait  till  I  open  the  door  into  the 
kitchen,"  she  said.  "There  's  a  light  up  there." 

And  Caleb  plodded  up  the  stairs  after  her 
with  his  head  down,  amazed  and  sorrowful. 

"  You  can  stay  here,"  said  Amanda,  opening 
the  outside  door  without  looking  at  him.  "  I  'm 
goin'  back  to  Cap'n  Blaisdell's." 

She  hurried  out  into  the  moonlit  path  across 
lots,  and  Caleb  followed.  They  entered  the 
yard,  and  Amanda  walked  up  to  the  window 
belonging  to  the  best  bedroom.  It  was  wide 
open,  and  she  rapped  on  it  loudly,  and  then 
turned  her  back. 

"Hello  !  "  came  a  sleepy  voice  from  within. 

"  I've  got  to  speak  to  you,"  called  Amanda. 
"  You  needn't  get  up.  Be  you  awake?  " 

"  I  guess  so,"  said  the  voice,  this  time  sev 
eral  feet  nearer  the  window.  "  What 's  up?  " 

"  I  Ve  been  over  an'  got  our  clock  an'  the 
rest  of  our  things,"  said  Amanda,  steadily.  "  An' 
you  Ve  got  your  money.  I  've  carried  the 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         163 

things  home  an'  fastened  'em  up.  They  're 
down  cellar  under  the  arch,  an'  I  'm  goin' 
to  set  over  'em  till  I  drop  afore  anybody 
lays  a  finger  on  'em  again.  An'  you  can  go 
to  law  if  you  're  a  mind  to;  but  I've  got  our 
things!''1 

There  was  a  silence.  Amanda  felt  that  the 
stranger's  eyes  were  fastened  upon  her  back, 
and  she  tried  not  to  tremble.  Caleb  knew 
they  were,  for  he  and  the  man  faced  each 
other. 

"  Well,  now,  you  know  you  Ve  as  good  as 
stole  my  property,"  began  Chapman ;  but  at 
that  instant,  Caleb's  voice  broke  roughly  upon 
the  air. 

"  You  say  that  ag'in,"  said  he,  "  an'  I  '11  horse 
whip  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life.  You 
touch  them  things  ag'in,  an'  I  '11  break  every 
bone  in  your  body.  I  dunno  whose  they  be, 
accordin'  to  rights,  but  by  gum  !  —  "  and  he 
stopped,  for  words  will  fail  where  a  resolute 
heart  need  not. 

There  was  again  a  silence,  and  the  stranger 
spoke  :  "  Well,  well !  "  he  said,  good-naturedly. 
"  I  guess  we  '11  have  to  call  it  square.  I  don't 
often  do  business  this  way;  but  if  you  '11  let 
me  alone,  I  '11  let  you  alone.  Good  luck  to 
you  !" 

Amanda's    heart    melted.        "  You  're    real 
good  !  "  she  cried,  and  turned  impulsively;  but 


1 64  MEADOW-GRASS. 

when  she  faced  the  white-shirted  form  at  the 
window,  she  ejaculated,  "  Oh,  my !  "  and 
fled  precipitately  round  the  corner  of  the 
house. 

Side  by  side,  the  two  took  their  way  across 
lots  again.  Amanda  was  shaking  all  over,  with 
weariness  and  emotion  spent.  Suddenly  a 
strange  sound  at  her  side  startled  her  inter 
scrutiny  of  Caleb's  face. 

"  Why,  Caleb  Rivers  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in 
amazement,  "you  ain't  cryin'?" 

"  I  dunno  what  I  'm  doin',"  said  Caleb, 
brushing  off  two  big  tears  with  his  jumper 
sleeve,  "  an'  I  don't  much  care.  It  ain't  your 
harnessin'  for  yourself  an'  feedin'  the  pigs,  an' 
my  not  comin'  Saturday  night,  but  it 's  seein' 
you  wheelin'  that  great  thing  all  alone.  An' 
you  're  so  little,  'Mandy  !  I  never  thought  much 
o'  myself,  an'  it  al'ays  seemed  kind  o'  queer 
you  could  think  anything  of  me ;  but  I  al'ays 
s'posed  you  'd  let  me  do  the  heft  o'  the  work, 
an'  not  cast  me  off!  " 

"  I  'ain't  cast  you  off,  Caleb,"  said  Amanda, 
faintly,  and  in  spite  of  herself  her  slender 
figure  turned  slightly  but  still  gratefully  toward 
him.  And  that  instant,  for  the  first  time  in  all 
their  lives,  Caleb's  arms  were  upholding  her, 
and  Amanda  had  received  her  crown.  Caleb 
had  kissed  her. 

"  Say,  'Mandy,  "  said  he,  when  they  parted, 


A   RIGHTEOUS   BARGAIN.         165 

an  hour  later,  by  the  syringa  bush  at  the  back 
door,  "  the  world  won't  come  to  an  end  if  you 
don't  iron  of  a  Tuesday.  I  was  thinkin'  we 
could  ketch  Passon  True  about  ten  o'clock 
better  'n  we  could  in  the  arternoon." 


JOINT   OWNERS  IN   SPAIN. 

*TPHE  Old  Ladies'  Home,  much  to  the  sorrow 
•*-  of  its  inmates,  "set  back  from  the  road." 
A  long,  box-bordered  walk  led  from  the  great 
door  down  to  the  old  turnpike,  and  thickly  bow- 
ering  lilac-bushes  forced  the  eye  to  play  an 
unsatisfied  hide-and-seek  with  the  view.  The. 
sequestered  old  ladies  were  quite  unreconciled 
to  their  leaf-hung  outlook ;  active  life  was  pre 
sumably  over  for  them,  and  all  the  more  did 
they  long  to  "  see  the  passing "  of  the  little 
world  which  had  usurped  their  places.  The 
house  itself  was  very  old,  a  stately,  square  struc 
ture,  with  pillars  on  either  side  of  the  door,  and 
a  fanlight  above.  It  had  remained  unpainted 
now  for  many  years,  and  had  softened  into  a 
mellow  lichen-gray,  so  harmonious  and  pleasing 
in  the  midst  of  summer's  vital  green,  that  the 
few  artists  who  ever  heard  of  Tiverton  sought  it 
out,  to  plant  umbrella  and  easel  in  the  garden, 
and  sketch  the  stately  relic ;  photographers,  also, 
made  it  one  of  their  accustomed  haunts.  Of 
the  artists  the  old  ladies  disapproved,  without  a 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN   SPAIN.       167 

dissenting  voice.  It  seemed  a  "  shaller  "  pro 
ceeding  to  sit  out  there  in  the  hot  sun  for  no 
result  save  a  wash  of  unreal  colors  on  a  white 
ground,  or  a  few  hasty  lines  indicating  no  solid 
reality ;  but  the  photographers  were  their  con 
stant  delight,  and  they  rejoiced  in  forming  them 
selves  into  groups  upon  the  green,  to  be  "took" 
and  carried  away  with  the  house. 

One  royal  winter's  day,  there  was  a  directors' 
meeting  in  the  great  south  room,  the  matron's 
parlor,  a  spot  bearing  the  happy  charm  of  per 
fect  loyalty  to  the  past,  with  its  great  fireplace, 
iron  dogs  and  crane,  its  settle  and  entrancing 
corner  cupboards.  The  hard-working  president 
of  the  board  was  speaking  hastily  and  from  a 
full  heart,  conscious  that  another  instant's  dis 
cussion  might  bring  the  tears  to  her  eyes  :  — 

"  May  I  be  allowed  to  say  —  it 's  irrelevant,  I 
know,  but  I  should  like  the  satisfaction  of  say 
ing  it  —  that  this  is  enough  to  make  one  vow 
never  to  have  anything  to  do  with  an  institution 
of  any  sort,  from  this  time  forth  for  evermore?  " 

For  the  moment  had  apparently  come  when 
a  chronic  annoyance  must  be  recognized  as 
unendurable.  They  had  borne  with  the  trial, 
inmates  and  directors,  quite  as  cheerfully  as 
most  ordinary  people  accept  the  inevitable  ;  but 
suddenly  the  tension  had  become  too  great,  and 
the  universal  patience  snapped.  Two  of  the 
old  ladies,  Mrs.  Blair  and  Miss  Dyer,  who  were 


1 68  MEADOW-GRASS. 

settled  in  the  Home  for  life,  and  who,  before 
going  there,  had  shown  no  special  waywardness 
of  temper,  had  proved  utterly  incapable  of  living 
in  peace  with  any  available  human  being ;  and 
as  the  Home  had  insufficient  accommodations, 
neither  could  be  isolated  to  fight  her  "black 
butterflies  "  alone.  No  inmate,  though  she  were 
cousin  to  Hercules,  could  be  given  a  room  to 
herself;  and  the  effect  of  this  dual  system  on 
these  two,  possibly  the  most  eccentric  of  the 
number,  had  proved  disastrous  in  the  extreme. 
Each  had,  in  her  own  favorite  fashion,  "  kicked 
over  the  traces,"  as  the  matron's  son  said  in 
town-meeting  (much  to  the  joy  of  the  village 
fathers),  and  to  such  purpose  that,  to  continue 
the  light-minded  simile,  very  little  harness  was 
left  to  guide  them  withal.  Mrs.  Blair,  being 
"  high  sperited,"  like  all  the  Coxes  from  whom 
she  sprung,  had  now  so  tyrannized  over  the  last 
of  her  series  of  room-mates,  so  browbeaten  and 
intimidated  her,  that  the  latter  had  actually- 
taken  to  her  bed  with  a  slow  fever  of  discourage 
ment,  announcing  that  "  she  'd  ruther  go  to  the 
poor-farm  and  done  with  it  than  resk  her  life 
there  another  night ;  and  she  'd  like  to  know 
what  had  become  of  that  hunderd  dollars  her 
nephew  Thomas  paid  down  in  bills  to  get  her 
into  the  Home,  for  she  'd  be  thankful  to  them 
that  laid  it  away  so  antic  to  hand  it  back  afore 
another  night  went  over  her  head,  so 't  she 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN   SPAIN.       169 

could  board  somewheres  decent  till  'twas  gone, 
and  then  starve  if  she  'd  got  to  !  " 

If  Miss  Sarah  Ann  Dyer,  known  also  as  a  dis 
turber  of  the  public  peace,  presented  a  less 
aggressive  front  to  her  kind,  she  was  yet,  in  her 
own  way,  a  cross  and  a  hindrance  to  their 
spiritual  growth.  She,  poor  woman,  lived  in  a 
scarcely  varying  state  of  hurt  feeling ;  her  tiny 
world  seemed  to  her  one  close  federation,  exist 
ing  for  the  sole  purpose  of  infringing  on  her 
personal  rights ;  and  though  she  would  not  take 
the  initiative  in  battle,  she  lifted  up  her  voice 
in  aggrieved  lamentation  over  the  tragic  inci 
dents  decreed  for  her  alone.  She  had  perhaps 
never  directly  reproached  her  own  unhappy 
room-mate  for  selecting  a  comfortable  chair,  for 
wearing  squeaking  shoes,  or  singing  "  Hearken, 
ye  sprightly,"  somewhat  early  in  the  morning, 
but  she  chanted  those  ills  through  all  her  waking 
hours  in  a  high,  yet  husky  tone,  broken  by  fre 
quent  sobs.  And  therefore,  as  a  result  of  these 
domestic  whirlwinds  and  too  stagnant  pools, 
came  the  directors'  meeting,  and  the  helpless 
protest  of  the  exasperated  president.  The  two 
cases  were  discussed  for  an  hour  longer,  in  the 
dreary  fashion  pertaining  to  a  question  which 
has  long  been  supposed  to  have  but  one  side ; 
and  then  it  remained  for  Mrs.  Mitchell,  the  new 
director,  to  cut  the  knot  with  the  energy  of  one 
to  whom  a  difficulty  is  fresh. 


1 70  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to  put  them 
together?"  asked  she.  "They  are  impossible 
people ;  so,  naturally,  you  have  selected  the 
very  mildest  and  most  Christian  women  to  en 
dure  their  nagging.  They  can't  live  with  the 
saints  of  the  earth.  Experience  has  proved 
that.  Put  them  into  one  room,  and  let  them 
fight  it  out  together." 

The  motion  was  passed  with  something  of 
that  awe  ever  attending  a  Napoleonic  decree, 
and  passed,  too,  with  the  utmost  good-breeding ; 
for  nobody  mentioned  the  Kilkenny  cats.  The 
matron  compressed  her  lips  and  lifted  her 
brows,  but  said  nothing ;  having  exhausted  her 
own  resources,  she  was  the  more  willing  to  take 
the  superior  attitude  of  good-natured  scepticism. 

The  moving  was  speedily  accomplished ;  and 
at  ten  o'clock,  one  morning,  Mrs.  Blair  was 
ushered  into  the  room  where  her  forced  col 
league  sat  by  the  window,  knitting.  There  the 
two  were  left  alone.  Miss  Dyer  looked  up,  and 
then  heaved  a  tempestuous  sigh  over  her  work, 
in  the  manner  of  one  not  entirely  surprised  by 
its  advent,  but  willing  to  suppress  it,  if  such  al 
leviation  might  be.  She  was  a  thin,  colorless 
woman,  and  infinitely  passive,  save  at  those 
times  when  her  nervous  system  conflicted  with 
the  scheme  of  the  universe.  Not  so  Mrs.  Blair. 
She  had  black  eyes,  "like  live  coals,"  said  her 
awed  associates ;  and  her  skin  was  soft  and  white, 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN   SPAIN.       171 

albeit  wrinkled.  One  could  even  believe  she 
had  reigned  a  beauty,  as  the  tradition  of  the 
house  declared.  This  morning,  she  held  her 
head  higher  than  ever,  and  disdained  expres 
sion  except  that  of  an  occasional  nasal  snort. 
She  regarded  the  room  with  the  air  of  an  im 
partial  though  exacting  critic ;  two  little  beds 
covered  with  rising- sun  quilts,  two  little  pine 
bureaus,  two  washstands.  The  sunshine  lay 
upon  the  floor,  and  in  that  radiant  pathway 
Miss  Dyer  sat. 

"  If  I  'd  ha'  thought  I  should  ha'  come  to 
this,"  began  Mrs.  Blair,  in  the  voice  of  one  who 
speaks  perforce  after  long  sufferance,  "  I  'd  ha' 
died  in  my  tracks  afore  I  'd  left  my  comfortable 
home  down  in  Tiverton  Holler.  Story-'n'-a- 
half  house,  a  good  sullar,  an'  woods  nigh-by  full 
o'  sarsaparilla  an'  goldthread  !  I  've  moved 
more  times  in  this  God-forsaken  place  than  a 
Methodist  preacher,  fust  one  room  an'  then 
another;  an'  bad  is  the  best.  It  was  poor 
pickin's  enough  afore,  but  this  is  the  crowner  !  " 

Miss  Dyer  said  nothing,  but  two  large  tears 
rolled  down  and  dropped  on  her  work.  Mrs. 
Blair  followed  their  course  with  gleaming  eyes 
endowed  with  such  uncomfortable  activity  that 
they  seemed  to  pounce  with  every  glance. 

"  What  under  the  sun  be  you  carryin'  on  like 
that  for?  "  she  asked,  giving  the  handle  of  the 
water-pitcher  an  emphatic  twitch  to  make  it 


172  MEADOW-GRASS. 

even  with  the  world.     "  You  'ain't  lost  nobody, 
have  ye,  sence  I  moved  in  here  ?  " 

Miss  Dyer  put  aside  her  knitting  with  osten 
tatious  abnegation,  and  began  rocking  herself 
back  and  forth  in  her  chair,  which  seemed  not 
of  itself  to  sway  fast  enough,  and  Mrs.  Blair's 
voice  rose  again,  ever  higher  and  more  me 
tallic  :  — 

"  I  dunno  what  you  Ve  got  to  complain  of 
more  'n  the  rest  of  us.  Look  at  that  dress 
you  've  got  on,  —  a  good  thick  thibet,  an' 
mine  's  a  cheap,  sleazy  alpaca  they  palmed  off 
on  me  because  they  knew  my  eyesight  ain't 
what  it  was  once.  An'  you  're  settin'  right 
there  in  the  sun,  gittin'  het  through,  an'  it 's 
cold  as  a  bam  over  here  by  the  door.  My 
land  !  if  it  don't  make  me  mad  to  see  anybody 
without  no  more  sperit  than  a  wet  rag  !  If 
you  've  lost  anybody,  why  don't  ye  say  so? 
An'  if  it 's  a  mad  fit,  speak  out  an'  say  that ! 
Give  me  anybody  that  's  got  a  tongue  in  their 
head,  /  say  !  " 

But  Miss  Dyer,  with  an  unnecessary  display 
of  effort,  was  hitching  her  chair  into  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  room,  the  rockers  hopelessly  snarl 
ing  her  yarn  at  every  move. 

"I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  keep  the  sun  off'n 
anybody,"  she  said,  tearfully.  "  It  never  come 
into  my  head  to  take  it  up,  an'  I  don't  claim 
no  share  of  anything.  I  guess,  if  the  truth  was 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN   SPAIN.       173 

known,  'twould  be  seen  I  'd  been  used  to  a 
house  lookin'  south,  an'  the  fore-room  winders 
all  of  a  glare  o'  light,  day  in  an'  day  out,  an' 
Madeira  vines  climbin'  over  'em,  an'  a  trellis  by 
the  front  door ;  but  that 's  all  past  an'  gone, 
past  an'  gone !  I  never  was  one  to  take 
more  'n  belonged  to  me  ;  an'  I  don't  care  who 
says  it,  I  never  shall  be.  An'  I  'd  hold  to  that, 
if  'twas  the  last  word  I  had  to  speak  !  " 

This  negative  sort  of  retort  had  an  enfeebling 
effect  upon  Mrs.  Blair. 

"  My  land !  "  she  exclaimed,  helplessly. 
"  Talk  about  my  tongue  !  Vinegar  's  nothin' 
to  cold  molasses,  if  you  Ve  got  to  plough  through 
it." 

The  other  sighed,  and  leaned  her  head  upon 
her  hand  in  an  attitude  of  extreme  dejection. 
Mrs.  Blair  eyed  her  with  the  exasperation  of  one 
whose  just  challenge  has  been  refused ;  she 
marched  back  and  forth  through  the  room,  now 
smoothing  a  fold  of  the  counterpane,  with  vicious 
care,  and  again  pulling  the  braided  rug  to  one 
side  or  the  other,  the  while  she  sought  new  fuel 
for  her  rage.  Without,  the  sun  was  lighting 
snowy  knoll  and  hollow,  and  printing  the  fine- 
etched  tracery  of  the  trees  against  a  crystal  sky. 
The  road  was  not  usually  much  frequented  in 
winter  time,  but  just  now  it  had  been  worn  by 
the  week's  sledding  into  a  shining  track,  and 
several  sleighs  went  jingling  up  and  down. 


174  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Tiverton  was  seizing  the  opportunity  of  a  per 
fect  day  and  the  best  of  "  going,"  and  was 
taking  its  way  to  market.  The  trivial  happen 
ings  of  this  far-away  world  had  thus  far  elicited 
no  more  than  a  passing  glance  from  Mrs.  Blair ; 
she  was  too  absorbed  in  domestic  warfare  even 
to  peer  down  through  the  leafless  lilac-boughs, 
in  futile  wonderment  as  to  whose  bells  they 
might  be,  ringing  merrily  past.  On  one  jour 
ney  about  the  room,  however,  some  chance 
arrested  her  gaze.  She  stopped,  transfixed. 

"Forever!"  she  cried.  Her  nervous,  blue- 
veined  hands  clutched  at  her  apron  and  held  it ; 
she  was  motionless  for  a  moment.  Yet  the  pic 
ture  without  would  have  been  quite  devoid  of 
interest  to  the  casual  eye  ;  it  could  have  borne 
little  significance  save  to  one  who  knew  the 
inner  life  history  of  the  Tiverton  Home,  and 
thus  might  guess  what  slight  events  wrought  all 
its  joy  and  pain.  A  young  man  had  set  up  hig 
camera  at  the  end  of  the  walk,  and  thrown  the 
cloth  over  his  head,  preparatory  to  taking  the 
usual  view  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Blair  recovered 
from  her  temporary  inaction.  She  rushed  to 
the  window,  and  threw  up  the  sash.  Her  husky 
voice  broke  strenuously  upon  the  stillness  :  — 

"  Here  !  you  keep  right  where  you  be  !  I  'm 
goin'  to  be  took  !  You  wait  till  I  come  !  " 

She  pulled  down  the  window,  and  went  in 
haste  to  the  closet,  in  the  excess  of  her  eager- 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN    SPAIN.       175 

ness  stumbling  recklessly  fonvard  into  its 
depths. 

"  Where  's  my  bandbox?  "  Her  voice  came 
piercingly  from  her  temporary  seclusion. 
"  Where  'd  they  put  it  ?  It  ain't  here  in 
sight !  My  soul !  where  's  my  bunnit?  " 

These  were  apostrophes  thrown  off  in  extrem 
ity  of  feeling ;  they  were  not  questions,  and  no 
listener,  even  with  the  most  friendly  disposition 
in  the  world,  need  have  assumed  the  necessity 
of  answering.  So,  wrapped  in  oblivion  to  all 
earthly  considerations  save  that  of  her  own 
inward  gloom,  the  one  person  who  might  have 
responded  merely  swayed  back  and  forth,  in 
martyrized  silence.  But  no  such  spiritual  with 
drawal  could  insure  her  safety.  Mrs.  Blair 
emerged  from  the  closet,  and  darted  across  the 
room  with  the  energy  of  one  stung  by  a  new 
despair.  She  seemed  about  to  fall  upon  the 
neutral  figure  in  the  corner,  but  seized  the 
chair-back  instead,  and  shook  it  with  such 
angry  vigor  that  Miss  Dyer  cowered  down  in 
no  simulated  fright. 

"  Where  's  my  green  bandbox?  "  The  words 
were  emphasized  by  cumulative  shakes.  "  Any 
body  that 's  took  that  away  from  me  ought  to  be 
b'iled  in  ile  !  Hangin'  's  too  good  for  'em,  but 
le'  me  git  my  eye  on  'em  an'  they  shall  swing 
for  't !  Yes,  they  shall,  higher  'n  GiProy's 
kite!" 


1 76  MEADOW-GRASS. 

The  victim  put  both  trembling  hands  to  her 
ears. 

"  I  ain't  deef !  "  she  wailed. 

"  Deef?  I  don't  care  whether  you  're  deef  or 
dumb,  or  whether  you  're  nummer  'n  a  beetle  ! 
It 's  my  bandbox  I  'm  arter.  Isr'el  in  Egypt  ! 
you  might  grind  some  folks  in  a  mortar  an'  you 
couldn't  make  'em  speak  ! " 

It  was  of  no  use.  Intimidation  had  been 
worse  than  hopeless ;  even  bodily  force  would 
not  avail.  She  cast  one  lurid  glance  at  the 
supine  figure,  and  gave  up  the  quest  in  that 
direction  as  sheer  waste  of  time.  With  new 
determination,  she  again  essayed  the  closet, 
tossing  shoes  and  rubbers  behind  her  in  an 
unsightly  heap,  quite  heedless  of  the  confusion 
of  rights  and  lefts.  At  last,  in  a  dark  corner, 
behind  a  blue  chest,  she  came  upon  her  treas 
ure.  Too  hurried  now  for  reproaches,  she  drew 
it  forth,  and  with  trembling  fingers  untied  the 
strings.  Casting  aside  the  cover,  she  produced 
a  huge  scoop  bonnet  of  a  long-past  date,  and 
setting  it  on  her  head,  with  the  same  fevered 
haste,  tied  over  it  the  long  figured  veil  destined 
always  to  make  an  inseparable  part  of  her  state 
array.  She  snatched  her  Stella  shawl  from  the 
drawer,  threw  it  over  her  shoulders,  and  ran  out 
of  the  room. 

Miss  Dyer  was  left  quite  bewildered  by  these 
erratic  proceedings,  but  she  had  no  mind  to 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN    SPAIN.       177 

question  them ;  so  many  stories  were  rife  in  the 
Home  of  the  eccentricities  embodied  in  the 
charitable  phrase  "  Mis'  Blair's  way  "  that  she 
would  scarcely  have  been  amazed  had  her  ter 
rible  room-mate  chosen  to  drive  a  coach  and 
four  up  the  chimney,  or  saddle  the  broom  for  a 
midnight  revel.  She  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief  at  the  bliss  of  solitude,  closed  her  eyes, 
and  strove  to  regain  the  lost  peace,  which, 
as  she  vaguely  remembered,  had  belonged  to 
her  once  in  a  shadowy  past. 

Silence  had  come,  but  not  to  reign.  Back 
flew  Mrs.  Blair,  like  a  whirlwind.  Her  cheeks 
wore  each  a  little  hectic  spot ;  her  eyes  were 
flaming.  The  figured  veil,  swept  rudely  to  one 
side,  was  borne  backwards  on  the  wind  of  her 
coming,  and  her  thin  hair,  even  in  those  few 
seconds,  had  become  wildly  disarranged. 

"  He  's  gone  !  "  she  announced,  passionately. 
"  He  kep'  right  on  while  I  was  fmdin'  my 
bunnit.  He  come  to  take  the  house,  an'  he  'd 
ha'  took  me  an'  been  glad.  An'  when  I  got 
that  plaguy  front  door  open,  he  was  jest  drivin' 
away ;  an'  I  might  ha'  hollered  till  I  was  black 
in  the  face,  an'  then  I  couldn't  ha'  made  him 
hear." 

"  I  dunno  what  to  say,  nor  what  not  to," 
remarked  Miss  Dyer,  to  her  corner.  "  If  I 
speak,  I  'm  to  blame  ;  an'  so  I  be  if  I  keep 
still." 


1 78  MEADOW-GRASS. 

The  other  old  lady  had  thrown  herself  into  a 
chair,  and  was  looking  wrathfully  before  her. 

"  It 's  the  same  man  that  come  from  Sudleigh 
last  August,"  she  said,  bitterly.  "He  took  the 
house  then,  an'  said  he  wanted  another  view 
when  the  leaves  was  off;  an'  that  time  I  was 
laid  up  with  my  stiff  ankle,  an'  didn't  git  into 
it,  an"  to-day  my  bunnit  was  hid,  an'  I  lost  it 
ag'in." 

Her  voice  changed.  To  the  listener,  it  took 
on  an  awful  meaning. 

"  An'  I  should  like  to  know  whose  fault  it 
was.  If  them  that  owns  the  winder,  an'  set  by 
it  till  they  see  him  comin',  had  spoke  up  an' 
said,  '  Mis'  Blair,  there  's  the  photograph  man. 
Don't  you  want  to  be  took  ? '  it  wouldn't  ha' 
been  too  late  !  If  anybody  had  answered  a 
civil  question,  an'  said,  '  Your  bunnit-box  sets 
there  behind  my  blue  chist,'  it  wouldn't  ha' 
been  too  late  then  !  An'  I  'ain't  had  my  like 
ness  took  sence  I  was  twenty  year  old,  an'  went 
to  Sudleigh  Fair  in  my  changeable  visite  an' 
leghorn  hat,  an'  Jonathan  wore  the  brocaded 
weskit  he  stood  up  in,  the  next  week  Thursday. 
It 's  enough  to  make  a  minister  swear  !  " 

Miss  Dyer  rocked  back  and  forth. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  she  wailed.     "  Dear  me  suz  !  " 

The  dinner-bell  rang,  creating  a  blessed  diver 
sion.  Mrs.  Blair,  rendered  absent-minded  by 
her  grief,  went  to  the  table  still  in  her  bonnet 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN    SPAIN.       179 

and  veil ;  and  this  dramatic  entrance  gave  rise 
to  such  morbid  though  unexpressed  curiosity 
that  every  one  forbore,  for  a  time,  to  wonder 
why  Miss  Dyer  did  not  appear.  Later,  how 
ever,  when  a  tray  was  prepared  and  sent  up  to 
her  (according  to  the  programme  of  her  bad 
days),  the  general  commotion  reached  an  almost 
unruly  point,  stimulated  as  it  was  by  the  matron's 
son,  who  found  an  opportunity  to  whisper 
one  garrulous  old  lady  that  Miss  Dyer  had 
received  bodily  injury  at  the  hands  of  her  room 
mate,  and  that  Mrs.  Blair  had  put  on  her  bonnet 
to  be  ready  for  the  sheriff  when  he  should  arrive. 
This  report,  judiciously  started,  ran  like  prairie 
fire  ;  and  the  house  was  all  the  afternoon  in 
a  pleasant  state  of  excitement.  Possibly  the 
matron  will  never  know  why  so  many  of  the  old 
ladies  promenaded  the  corridors  from  dinner 
time  until  long  after  early  candlelight,  while  a 
few  kept  faithful  yet  agitated  watch  from  the 
windows.  For  interest  was  divided  ;  some  pre 
ferred  to  see  the  sheriffs  advent,  and  others 
found  zest  in  the  possibility  of  counting  the 
groans  of  the  prostrate  victim. 

When  Mrs.  Blair  returned  to  the  stage  of 
action,  she  was  much  refreshed  by  her  abundant 
meal  and  the  strong  tea  which  three  times  daily 
heartened  her  for  battle.  She  laid  aside  her 
bonnet,  and  carefully  folded  the  veil.  Then  she 
looked  about  her,  and,  persistently  ignoring  all 


i8o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

the  empty  chairs,  fixed  an  annihilating  gaze  on 
one  where  the  dinner-tray  still  remained. 

"  I  s'pose  there 's  no  need  o'  my  settin' 
down,"  she  remarked,  bitingly.  "  It 's  all  in  the 
day's  work.  Some  folks  are  waited  on ;  some 
ain't.  Some  have  their  victuals  brought  to  'em 
an'  pushed  under  their  noses,  an'  some  has  to 
go  to  the  table  ;  when  they  're  there,  they  can 
take  it  or  leave  it.  The  quality  can  keep  their 
waiters  settin'  round  day  in  an'  day  out,  fillin' 
up  every  chair  in  the  room.  For  my  part,  I 
should  think  they  'd  have  an  extension  table 
moved  in,  an'  a  snowdrop  cloth  over  it !  " 

Miss  Dyer  had  become  comparatively  placid, 
but  now  she  gave  way  to  tears. 

"  Anybody  can  move  that  waiter  that 's  a 
mind  to,"  she  said,  tremulously.  "  I  would  my 
self,  if  I  had  the  stren'th  :  but  I  'ain't  got  it.  I 
ain't  a  well  woman,  an'  I  'ain't  been  this  twenty 
year.  If  old  Dr.  Parks  was  alive  this  day,  he  'd 
say  so.  'You  'ain't  never  had  a  chance,'  he 
says  to  me.  '  You  Ve  been  pull-hauled  one  way 
or  another  sence  you  was  born.'  An'  he  never 
knew  the  wust  on  't,  for  the  wust  hadn't  come." 

"  Humph  !  "  It  was  a  royal  and  explosive 
note.  It  represented  scorn  for  which  Mrs. 
Blair  could  find  no  adequate  utterance.  She 
selected  the  straightest  chair  in  the  room,  osten 
tatiously  turned  its  back  to  her  enemy,  and 
seated  herself.  Then,  taking  out  her  knitting, 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN   SPAIN.       181 

she  strove  to  keep  silence ;  but  that  was  too 
heavy  a  task,  and  at  last  she  broke  forth,  with 
renewed  bitterness,  — 

"  To  think  of  all  the  wood  I  've  burnt  up  in 
my  kitchen  stove  an'  air-tight,  an'  never  thought 
nothin'  of  it !  To  think  of  all  the  wood  there 
is  now,  growin'  an'  rottin'  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
sheba,  an'  I  can't  lay  my  fingers  on  it !  " 

"  I  dunno  what  you  want  o'  wood.  I  'm  sure 
this  room  's  warm  enough." 

"You  don't?  Well,  I'll  tell  ye.  I  want 
some  two- inch  boards,  to  nail  up  a  partition  in 
the  middle  o'  this  room,  same  as  Josh  Harden 
done  to  spite  his  wife.  I  don't  want  more  'n 
my  own,  but  I  want  it  mine." 

Miss  Dyer  groaned,  and  drew  an  uncertain 
hand  across  her  forehead. 

"You  wouldn't  have  no  gre't  of  an  outlay 
for  boards,"  she  said,  drearily.  "  'Twouldn't 
have  to  be  knee-high  to  keep  me  out.  I  'm  no 
hand  to  go  where  I  ain't  wanted  ;  an'  if  I  ever 
was,  I  guess  I'm  cured  on 't  now." 

Mrs.  Blair  dropped  her  knitting  in  her  lap. 
For  an  instant,  she  sat  there  motionless,  in  a 
growing  rigidity ;  but  light  was  dawning  in  her 
eyes.  Suddenly  she  came  to  her  feet,  and 
tossed  her  knitting  on  the  bed. 

"  Where  's  that  piece  o'  chalk  you  had  when 
you  marked  out  your  tumbler-quilt?"  The 
words  rang  like  a  martial  order. 


1 82  MEADOW-GRASS, 

Miss  Dyer  drew  it  forth  from  the  ancient- 
looking  bag,  known  as  a  cavo,  which  was  ever 
at  her  side. 

"  Here  'tis,"  she  said,  in  her  forlornest  quaver. 
"  I  hope  you  won't  do  nothin'  out  o'  the  way 
with  it.  I  should  hate  to  git  into  trouble  here. 
I  ain't  that  kind." 

Mrs.  Blair  was  too  excited  to  hear  or  heed 
her.  She  was  briefly,  flashingly,  taking  in  the 
possibilities  of  the  room,  her  bright  black  eyes 
darting  here  and  there  with  fiery  insistence. 
Suddenly  she  went  to  the  closet,  and,  diving  to 
the  bottom  of  a  baggy  pocket  in  her  "  t'other 
dress,"  drew  forth  a  ball  of  twine.  She  chalked 
it,  still  in  delighted  haste,  and  forced  one  end 
upon  her  bewildered  room-mate. 

"  You  go  out  there  to  the  middle  square  o' 
the  front  winder,"  she  commanded,  "  an'  hold 
your  end  o'  the  string  down  on  the  floor.  I  '11 
snap  it." 

Miss  Dyer  cast  one  despairing  glance  about 
her,  and  obeyed. 

"  Crazy  !  "  she  muttered.  "  Oh  my  land  ! 
she  's  crazy 's  a  loon.  I  wisht  Mis'  Mitchell  'd 
pitch  her  tent  here  a  spell  !  " 

But  Mrs.  Blair  was  following  out  her  purpose 
in  a  manner  exceedingly  methodical.  Drawing 
out  one  bed,  so  that  it  stood  directly  opposite 
her  kneeling  helper,  she  passed  the  cord  about 
the  leg  of  the  bedstead  and  made  it  fast ;  then, 


JOINT   OWNERS    IN    SPAIN.       183 

returning  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  she 
snapped  the  line  triumphantly.  A  faint  chalk- 
mark  was  left  upon  the  floor. 

"  There  !  "  she  cried.  "  Leggo  !  Now,  you 
gi'  me  the  chalk,  an'  I  '11  go  over  it  an'  make 
it  whiter." 

She  knelt  and  chalked  with  the  utmost  ab 
sorption,  crawling  along  on  her  knees,  quite 
heedless  of  the  despised  alpaca ;  and  Miss 
Dyer,  hovering  in  a  corner,  timorously  watched 
her.  Mrs.  Blair  staggered  to  her  feet,  entan 
gled  by  her  skirt,  and  pitching  like  a  ship 
at  sea. 

"There!"  she  announced.  "Now  here's 
two  rooms.  The  chalk-mark 's  the  partition. 
You  can  have  the  mornin'  sun,  for  I  'd  jest  as 
soon  live  by  a  taller  candle  if  I  can  have  some- 
thin'  that 's  my  own.  I  '11  chalk  a  lane  into  the 
closet,  an'  we  '11  both  keep  a  right  o'  way  there. 
Now  I  'm  to  home,  an'  so  be  you.  Don't  you 
dast  to  speak  a  word  to  me  unless  you  come 
an'  knock  here  on  my  headboard,  —  that 's 
the  front  door,  —  an'  I  won't  to  you.  Well,  if 
I  ain't  glad  to  be  alone  !  I  've  hung  my  harp 
on  a  wilier  long  enough  !  " 

It  was  some  time  before  the  true  meaning  of 
the  new  arrangement  penetrated  Miss  Dyer's 
slower  intelligence ;  but  presently  she  drew  her 
chair  nearer  the  window  and  thought  a  little, 
chuckling  as  she  did  so.  She,  too,  was  alone. 


1 84  MEADOW-GRASS. 

The  sensation  was  new  and  very  pleasant.  Mrs. 
Blair  went  back  and  forth  through  the  closet- 
lane,  putting  her  clothes  away,  with  high  good 
humor.  Once  or  twice  she  sang  a  little  — 
Derby's  Ram  and  Lord  Lovel  —  in  a  cracked 
voice.  She  was  in  love  with  solitude. 

Just  before  tea,  Mrs.  Mitchell,  in  some  trepi 
dation,  knocked  at  the  door,  to  see  the  fruits  of 
contention  present  and  to  come.  She  had  ex 
pected  to  hear  loud  words  ;  and  the  silence  quite 
terrified  her,  emphasizing,  as  it  did,  her  owji 
guilty  sense  of  personal  responsibility.  Miss 
Dyer  gave  one  appealing  look  at  Mrs.  Blair, 
and  then,  with  some  indecision,  went  to  open 
the  door,  for  the  latch  was  in  her  house. 

"  Well,  here  you  are,  comfortably  settled  !  " 
began  Mrs.  Mitchell.  She  had  the  unmistakable 
tone  of  professional  kindliness ;  yet  it  rang 
clear  and  true.  "  May  I  come  in?  " 

"  Set  right  down  here,"  answered  Miss  Dyer, 
drawing  forward  a  chair.  "  I  'm  real  pleased  to 
see  ye." 

"  And  how  are  you  this  morning?  "  This  was 
addressed  to  the  occupant  of  the  other  house, 
who,  quite  oblivious  to  any  alien  presence,  stood 
busily  rubbing  the  chalk-marks  from  her  dress. 

Mrs.  Blair  made  no  answer.  She  might  have 
been  stone  deaf,  and  as  dumb  as  the  hearth 
stone  bricks.  Mrs.  Mitchell  cast  an  alarmed 
erlance  at  her  entertainer. 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN    SPAIN.       185 

"  Isn't  she  well?"  she  said,  softly. 

"  It 's  a  real  pretty  day,  ain't  it?  "  responded 
Miss  Dyer.  "  If  'twas  summer  time,  I  should 
think  there  'd  be  a  sea  turn  afore  night.  I  like 
a  sea  turn  myself.  It  smells  jest  like  Old  Boar's 
Head." 

"  I  have  brought  you  down  some  fruit."  Mrs. 
Mitchell  was  still  anxiously  observing  the  silent 
figure,  now  absorbed  in  an  apparently  futile 
search  in  a  brocaded  work-bag.  "  Mrs.  Blair, 
do  you  ever  cut  up  bananas  and  oranges 
together?  " 

No  answer.  The  visitor  rose,  and  unwittingly 
stepped  across  the  dividing  line. 

"Mrs.  Blair — "  she  began,  but  she  got  no 
further. 

Her  hostess  turned  upon  her,  in  surprised 
welcome. 

"  Well,  if  it  ain't  Mis'  Mitchell !  I  can't 
say  I  didn't  expect  you,  for  I  see  you  goin'  into 
Miss  Dyer's  house  not  more  'n  two  minutes 
ago.  Seems  to  me  you  make  short  calls.  Now 
set  right  down  here,  where  you  can  see  out  o' 
the  winder.  That  square  's  cracked,  but  I 
guess  the  directors  '11  put  in  another." 

Mrs.  Mitchell  was  amazed,  but  entirely  inter 
ested.  It  was  many  a  long  day  since  any  per 
son,  official  or  private,  had  met  with  cordiality 
from  this  quarter. 

"  I  hope  you  and  our  friend  are   going   to 


1 86  MEADOW-GRASS. 

enjoy  your  room  together,"  she  essayed,  with  a 
hollow  cheerfulness. 

"  I  expect  to  be  as  gay  as  a  cricket,"  returned 
Mrs.  Blair,  innocently.  "  An"  I  do  trust  I  've 
got  good  neighbors.  I  like  to  keep  to  myself, 
but  if  I  've  got  a  neighbor,  I  want  her  to  be 
somebody  you  can  depend  upon." 

"  I  'm  sure  Miss  Dyer  means  to  be  very 
neighborly."  The  director  turned,  with  a  smile, 
to  include  that  lady  in  the  conversation.  But 
the  local  deafness  had  engulfed  her.  She  was 
sitting  peacefully  by  the  window,  with  the  air  of 
one  retired  within  herself,  to  think  her  own  very 
remote  thoughts.  The  visitor  mentally  impro 
vised  a  little  theory,  and  it  seemed  to  fit  the 
occasion.  They  had  quarrelled,  she  thought, 
and  each  was  disturbed  at  any  notice  bestowed 
on  the  other. 

"  I  have  been  wondering  whether  you  would 
both  like  to  go  sleighing  with  me  some  after 
noon?"  she  ventured,  with  the  humility  so 
prone  to  assail  humankind  in  a  frank  and 
shrewish  presence.  "  The  roads  are  in  won 
derful  condition,  and  I  don't  believe  you  'd  take 
cold.  Do  you  know,  I  found  Grandmother 
Eaton's  foot-warmers,  the  other  day  !  I  '11  bring 
them  along." 

"  Law  !  I  'd  go  anywheres  to  git  out  o'  here," 
said  Mrs.  Blair,  ruthlessly.  "  I  dunno  when 
I  've  set  behind  a  horse,  either.  I  guess  the 


JOINT   OWNERS   IN   SPAIN.       187 

last  time  was  the  day  I  rid  up  here  for  good, 
an'  then  I  didn't  feel  much  like  lookin'  at  out 
door.  Well,  I  guess  you  be  a  new  director,  or 
you  never  'd  ha'  thought  on  't !  " 

"How  do  you  feel  about  it,  Miss  Dyer?" 
asked  the  visitor.  "  Will  you  go,  —  perhaps  on 
Wednesday?" 

The  other  householder  moved  uneasily.  Her 
hands  twitched  at  their  knitting ;  a  flush  came 
over  her  cheeks,  and  she  cast  a  childishly  ap 
pealing  glance  at  her  neighbor  across  the  chalk- 
line.  Her  eyes  were  filling  fast  with  tears. 
"  Save  me  ! "  her  look  seemed  to  entreat.  "  Let 
me  not  lose  this  happy  fortune  !  "  Mrs.  Blair 
interpreted  the  message,  and  rose  to  the  occa 
sion  with  the  vigor  of  the  intellectually  great. 

"Mis'  Mitchell,"  she  said,  clearly,  "I  maybe 
queer  in  my  notions,  but  it  makes  me  as  nervous 
as  a  witch  to  have  anybody  hollerin'  out  o'  my 
winders.  I  don't  care  whether  it 's  company 
nor  whether  it 's  my  own  folks.  If  you  want  to 
speak  to  Miss  Dyer,  you  come  along  here  arter 
me,  —  don't  you  hit  the  partition  now  !  —  right 
out  o'  my  door  an'  into  her'n.  Here,  I'll 
knock!  Miss  Dyer,  be  you  to  home?" 

The  little  old  lady  came  forward,  fluttering 
and  radiant  in  the  excess  of  her  relief. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  be,"  she  said,  "an*  all  alone, 
too  !  I  see  you  go  by  the  winder,  an'  I  was  in 
hopes  you  'd  come  in  !  " 


i88  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Then  the  situation  dawned  upon  Mrs.  Mitchell 
with  an  effect  vastly  surprising  to  the  two  old 
pensioners.  She  turned  from  one  to  the  other, 
including  them  both  in  a  look  of  warm  loving- 
kindness.  It  was  truly  an  illumination.  Hitherto, 
they  had  thought  chiefly  of  her  winter  cloak  and 
nodding  ostrich  plume  ;  now,  at  last,  they  saw 
her  face,  and  read  some  part  of  its  message. 

"  You  poor  souls !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you 
care  so  much  as  that?  O  you  poor  souls!" 

Miss  Dyer  fingered  her  apron  and  looked  at 
the  floor,  but  her  companion  turned  brusquely 
away,  even  though  she  trod  upon  the  partition 
in  her  haste. 

"  Law  !  it 's  nothin'  to  make  such  a  handle 
of,"  she  said.  "  Folks  don't  want  to  be  under 
each  other's  noses  all  the  time.  I  dunno  's 
anybody  could  stan'  it,  unless  'twas  an  emmet. 
They  seem  to  git  along  swarmin'  round  together." 

Mrs.  Mitchell  left  the  room  abruptly. 

"Wednesday  or  Thursday,  then  !  "  she  called 
over  her  shoulder. 

The  next  forenoon,  Mrs.  Blair  made  her 
neighbor  a  long  visit.  Both  old  ladies  had  their 
knitting,  and  they  sat  peacefully  swaying  back 
and  forth,  recalling  times  past,  and  occasionally 
alluding  to  their  happy  Wednesday. 

"What  I  really  come  in  for,"  said  Mrs.  Blair, 
finally,  "  was  to  ask  if  you  don't  think  both  our 
settin'-rooms  need  new  paper." 


JOINT   OWNERS    IN    SPAIN.       189 

The  other  gave  one  bewildered  glance  about 
her. 

"  Why,  'tain't  been  on  more  'n  two  weeks," 
she  began ;  and  then  remembrance  awoke  in 
her,  and  she  stopped.  It  was  not  the  scene  of 
their  refuge  and  conflict  that  must  be  con 
sidered  ;  it  was  the  house  of  fancy  built  by 
each  unto  herself.  Invention  did  not  come 
easily  to  her  as  yet,  and  she  spoke  with  some 
hesitation. 

"  I  've  had  it  in  mind  myself  quite  a  spell, 
but  somehow  I  'ain't  been  able  to  fix  on  the 
right  sort  o'  paper." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  kind  of  a  straw  color, 
all  lit  up  with  tulips?"  inquired  Mrs.  Blair, 
triumphantly. 

"  Ain't  that  kind  o'  gay?  " 

"  Gay  ?  Well,  you  want  it  gay,  don't  ye  ?  I 
dunno  why  folks  seem  to  think  they  've  got 
to  live  in  a  hearse  because  they  expect  to  ride 
in  one  !  What  if  we  be  gittin"  on  a  little  mite 
in  years?  We  ain't  underground  yit,  be  we? 
I  see  a  real  good  ninepenny  paper  once,  all 
covered  over  with  green  brr.kes.  I  declare  if 
'twa'n't  sweet  pretty  !  Well,  whether  I  paper 
or  whether  I  don't,  I  've  got  some  thoughts  of 
a  magenta  sofy.  I  'm  tired  to  death  o'  that  old 
horsehair  lounge  that  sets  in  my  clock-room. 
Sometimes  I  wish  the  moths  would  tackle  it, 
but  I  guess  they  've  got  more  sense.  I  've  al'ays 


1 9o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

said  to  myself  I  'd  have  a  magenta  sofy  when  I 
could  git  round  to  it,  and  I  dunno  's  I  shall  be 
any  nearer  to  it  than  I  be  now." 

"  Well,  you  are  tasty,"  said  Miss  Dyer,  in 
some  awe.  "  I  dunno  how  you  come  to  think 
o'  that  !  " 

"  Priest  Rowe  had  one  when  I  wa'n't  more  'n 
twenty.  Some  o'  his  relations  give  it  to  him 
(he  married  into  the  quality),  an'  I  remember 
as  if  'twas  yisterday  what  a  tew  there  was  over 
it.  An'  I  said  to  myself  then,  if  ever  I  was 
prospered  I  'd  have  a  magenta  sofy.  I  'ain't  got 
to  it  till  now,  but  now  I  '11  have  it  if  I  die  for  't." 

"Well,  I  guess  you're  in  the  right  on 't." 
Miss  Dyer  spoke  absently,  glancing  from  the 
window  in  growing  trouble.  "  O  Mis'  Blair  !  " 
she  continued,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  con 
fidence,  "  you  don't  think  there 's  a  storm 
brewin',  do  you?  If  it  snows  Wednesday,  I 
shall  give  up  beat !  " 

Mrs.  Blair,  in  her  turn,  peered  at  the  smiling 
sky. 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  one  o'  them  kind  that 
thinks  every  fair  day  's  a  weather  breeder,"  she 
said.  "  Law,  no  !  I  don't  b'lieve  it  will  storm  ; 
an'  if  it  does,  why,  there  's  other  Wednesdays 
comin' !  " 


AT   SUDLEIGH   FAIR. 

TAELILAH  JOYCE  was  sitting  on  her  front 
•"-^  doorstone  with  a  fine  disregard  of  the 
fact  that  her  little  clock  had  struck  eight  of  the 
morning,  while  her  bed  was  still  unmade.  The 
Tiverton  folk  who  disapproved  of  her  shiftless- 
ness  in  letting  the  golden  hours  run  thus  to 
waste,  did  grudgingly  commend  her  for  airing 
well.  Her  bed  might  not  even  be  spread  up 
till  sundown,  but  the  sheets  were  always  hang 
ing  from  her  little  side  window,  in  fine  weather, 
flapping  dazzlingly  in  the  sun  ;  and  sometimes 
her  feather-bed  lay,  the  whole  day  long,  on  the 
green  slope  outside,  called  by  Dilly  her  "spring," 
only  because  the  snow  melted  first  there  on  the 
freedom  days  of  the  year.  The  new  editor  of 
the  Sudleigh  "  Star,"  seeing  her  slight,  wiry 
figure  struggling  with  the  bed  like  a  very  little 
ant  under  a  caterpillar  all  too  large,  was  once 
on  the  point  of  drawing  up  his  horse  at  her  gate. 
He  was  a  chivalrous  fellow,  and  he  wanted  to 
help  ;  but  Brad  Freeman,  hulking  by  with  his 
gun  at  the  moment,  stopped  him. 


i92  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  That 's  only  Dilly  wrastlin'  with  her  bed,  ' 
he  called  back,  in  the  act  of  stepping  over  the 
wall  into  the  meadow.  "  'Twon't  do  no  good 
to  take  holt  once,  unless  you  're  round  here 
every  mornin'  'bout  the  same  time.  Dilly  '11 
git  the  better  on  't.  She  al'ays  doos."  So  the 
editor  laughed,  put  down  another  Tiverton 
custom  in  his  mental  notebook,  and  drove 
on. 

Dilly  was  a  very  little  woman,  with  abnormally 
long  and  sinewy  arms.  Her  small,  rather  deli 
cate  face  had  a  healthy  coat  of  tan,  and  her 
iron-gray  hair  was  braided  with  scrupulous  care. 
She  resembled  her  own  house  to  a  striking 
degree  ;  she  was  fastidiously  neat,  but  not  in 
the  least  orderly.  The  Tiverton  housekeepers 
could  not  appreciate  this  attitude  in  reference 
to  the  conventional  world.  It  was  all  very  well 
to  keep  the  kitchen  floor  scrubbed,  but  they  did 
believe,  also,  in  seeing  the  table  properly  set, 
and  in  finishing  the  washing  by  eight  o'clock  on 
Monday  morning.  Now  Dilly  seldom  felt  in 
clined  to  set  any  table  at  all.  She  was  far  more 
likely  to  take  her  bread  and  milk  under  a  tree ; 
and  as  for  washing,  Thursday  was  as  good  a  day 
as  any,  she  was  wont  to  declare.  Moreover,  the 
tradition  of  hanging  garments  on  the  line  ac 
cording  to  a  severely  classified  system,  did  not 
in  the  least  appeal  to  her. 

"  I  guess  a  petticoat  '11  dry  jest  as  quick  if 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  193 

it 's  hung  'side  of  a  nightgown,"  she  told  her 
critics,  drily.  "  An'  when  you  come  to  hangin' 
stockin's  by  the  pair,  better  separate  'em,  I  say  ! 
Like  man  an'  wife  !  Give  'em  a  vacation,  once 
in  a  while,  an'  love  '11  live  the  longer  !  " 

Dilly  was  thinking,  this  morning,  of  all  the 
possibilities  of  the  lovely,  shining  day.  So  many 
delights  lay  open  to  her  !  She  could  take  her 
luncheon  in  her  pocket,  and  go  threading 
through  the  woods  behind  her  house.  She 
could  walk  over  to  Pine  Hollow,  to  see  how  the 
cones  were  coming  on,  and  perchance  scrape 
together  a  basket  of  pine  needles,  to  add  to  her 
winter's  kindling ;  or  she  might,  if  the  world 
and  the  desires  thereof  assailed  her,  visit  Sud- 
leigh  Fair.  Better  still,  she  need  account  to 
nobody  if  she  chose  to  sit  there  on  the  door- 
stone,  and  let  the  hours  go  unregretted  by. 
Presently,  her  happy  musing  was  broken  by  a 
ripple  from  the  outer  world.  A  girl  came 
briskly  round  the  corner  where  the  stone-wall 
lay  hidden  under  a  wilderness  of  cinnamon  rose 
bushes  and  blackberry  vines,  —  Rosa  Tolman, 
dressed  in  white  pique,  with  a  great  leghorn  hat 
over  her  curls.  The  girl  came  hurrying  up  the 
path,  with  a  rustle  of  starched  petticoats,  and 
still  Dilly  kept  her  trance-like  posture. 

"'  I  know  who  'tis  !  "  she  announced,  presently, 
in  a  declamatory  voice.  "  It  's  Rosy  Tolman, 
an'  she  's  dressed  in  white,  with  red  roses,  all 
13 


1 94  MEADOW-GRASS. 

complete,  an'  she  's  goin'  to  Sudleigh  Cattle- 
Show." 

Rosa  lost  a  shade  of  pink  from  her  cheeks. 
Her  round  blue  eyes  widened,  in  an  unmistak 
able  terror  quite  piteous  to  see. 

"  O  Dilly  !  "  she  quavered,  "  how  do  you  know 
such  things?  Why,  you  'ain't  looked  at  me  !  " 

Dilly  opened  her  eyes,  and  chuckled  in  keen 
enjoyment. 

"  Bless  ye  !  "  she  said,  "  I  can't  help  imposin' 
on  ye,  no  more  'n  a  cat  could  help  ketchin'  a 
mouse,  if 't  made  a  nest  down  her  throat.  Why, 
I  see  ye  comin'  round  the  corner  !  But  when 
folks  thinks  you  're  a  witch,  it  ain't  in  human 
natur'  not  to  fool  'em.  I  am  a  witch,  ain't  I, 
dear?  Now,  ain't  I?" 

•  Rosa's  color  had  faltered  back,  but  she  still 
stood  visibly  in  awe  of  her  old  neighbor. 

"  Well,"  she  owned,  "  Elvin  Drew  says  you 
can  see  in  the  dark,  but  I  don't  know 's  he 
means  anything  by  it." 

Again  Dilly  broke  into  laughter,  rocking  back 
and  forth,  in  happy  abandonment. 

"I  can!"  she  cried,  gleefully.  "You  tell 
him  I  can  !  An'  when  I  can't,  folks  are  so 
neighborly  they  strike  a  light  for  me  to  see  by. 
You  tell  him  !  Well,  now,  what  is  it?  You  've 
come  to  ask  suthin'.  Out  with  it !  " 

"  Father  told  me  to  come  over,  and  see  if  you 
can't  tell  something  about  our  cows.  They  're 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  195 

all  drying  up,  and  he  don't  see  any  reason 
why." 

Dilly  nodded  her  head  sagely. 

"  You  'd  better  ha'  come  sooner,"  she  an 
nounced.  "  You  tell  him  he  must  drive  'em 
to  pastur'  himself,  an'  go  arter  'em,  too." 

"Why?" 

"  An'  you  tell  him  to  give  Davie  a  Saturday, 
here  an'  there,  to  go  fishin'  in,  an'  not  let  him 
do  so  many  chores.  Now,  you  hear  !  Your 
father  must  drive  the  cows,  an'  he  must  give 
Davie  time  to  play  a  little,  or  there  '11  be  dark 
days  comin',  an'  he  won't  be  prepared  for 
'em." 

"  My  !  "  exclaimed  Rosa,  blankly.  "  My  ! 
Ain't  it  queer  !  It  kind  o'  scares  me.  But, 
Dilly,"  —  she  turned  about,  so  that  only  one 
flushed  cheek  remained  visible,  —  "  Dilly,  'ain't 
you  got  something  to  say  to  me?  We  're  going 
to  be  married  next  Tuesday,  Elvin  and  me. 
It 's  all  right,  ain't  it?" 

Dilly  bent  forward,  and  peered  masterfully 
into  her  face.  She  took  the  girl's  plump  pink 
hand,  and  drew  her  forward.  Rosa,  as  if  com 
pelled  by  some  unseen  force,  turned  about,  and 
allowed  her  frightened  gaze  to  lie  ensnared  by 
the  witch's  great  black  eyes.  Dilly  began,  in  a 
deep  intense  voice,  with  the  rhythm  of  the 
Methodist  exhorter,  though  on  a  lower  key,  — 

"  Two  years,  that  boy  's  been  arter  you.     Two 


196  MEADOW-GRASS. 

years,  you  trampled  on  him  as  if  he  'd  been  the 
dust  under  your  feet.  He  was  poor  an'  strug- 
glin'.  He  was  left  with  his  mother  to  take  care 
on,  an'  a  mortgage  to  work  off.  An'  then  his 
house  burnt  down,  an'  he  got  his  insurance 
money  ;  an'  that  minute,  you  turned  right  round 
an'  says, '  I  "11  have  you.'  An'  now,  you  say,  *  Is 
it  all  right?'  Is  it  right,  Rosy  Tolman?  You 
tell  me'" 

Rosa  was  sobbing  hysterically. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  scare  me  so  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  yet  not  for  a  moment  attempting 
to  withdraw  her  hand,  or  turn  aside  her  terrified 
gaze.  "  I  wish  I  never  'd  said  one  word  !  " 

Dilly  broke  the  spell  as  lightly  as  she  had 
woven  it.  A  smile  passed  over  her  face,  like  a 
charm,  dispelling  all  its  prophetic  fervor. 

"There!  there!"  she  said,  dropping  the 
girl's  hand.  "  I  thought  I  'd  scare  ye  !  What 's 
the  use  o'  bein'  a  witch,  if  ye  can't  upset  folks? 
Now  don't  cry,  an'  git  your  cheeks  all  blotched 
up  afore  Elvin  calls  to  fetch  ye,  with  that  hired 
horse,  an'  take  ye  to  the  Cattle- Show  !  But  don't 
ye  forgit  what  I  say  !  You  remember  we  ain't 
goin'  to  wait  for  the  Day  o'  Judgment,  none  on 
us.  It  comes  every  hour.  If  Gabriel  was 
tootin',  should  you  turn  fust  to  Elvin  Drew,  an' 
go  up  or  down  with  him,  wherever  he  was 
'lected  ?  That 's  what  you  've  got  to  think  on  ; 
not  your  new  hat  nor  your  white  pique.  (Didn't 


AT   SUDLEIGH   FAIR.  197 

iron  it  under  the  overskirt,  did  ye  ?  How  'd  I 
know  ?  Law  !  how  's  a  witch  know  anything  ?) 
Now,  you  'ain't  opened  your  bundle,  dear,  have 
ye?  Raisin-cake  in  it,  ain't  there?" 

Rosa  bent  suddenly  forward,  and  placed  the 
package  in  Billy's  lap.  In  spite  of  the  bright 
daylight  all  about  her,  she  was  frightened ;  if  a 
cloud  had  swept  over,  she  must  have  screamed. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  found  it  out,"  she 
whispered,  "  but  'tis  raisin-cake.  Mother  sent  it. 
She  knew  I  was  going  to  ask  you  about  the 
cows.  She  said  I  was  to  tell  you,  too,  there  's 
some  sickness  over  to  Sudleigh,  and  she  thought 
you  could  go  over  there  nussing,  if  you  wanted 
to." 

"  I  'ain't  got  time,"  said  Dilly,  placidly.  "  I 
give  up  nussin',  two  year  ago.  I  'ain't  got  any 
time  at  all !  Well,  here  they  come,  don't  they? 
One  for  me,  an'  one  for  you  !  " 

A  light  wagon,  driven  rapidly  round  the 
corner,  drew  up  at  the  gate.  Elvin  Drew 
jumped  down,  and  helped  out  his  companion, 
a  short,  rather  thickset  girl,  with  smooth,  dark 
hair,  honest  eyes,  and  a  sensitive  mouth.  She 
came  quickly  up  the  path,  after  an  embarrassed 
word  of  thanks  to  the  young  man. 

"  He  took  me  in,"  she  began,  almost  apolo 
getically  to  Rosa,  who  surveyed  her  with  some 
haughtiness.  "  I  was  comin'  up  here  to  see 
Dilly,  an'  he  offered  me  a  ride." 


198  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Rosa's  color  and  spirits  had  returned,  at  the 
sight  of  her  tangible  ally  at  the  gate. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  must  be  going,"  she  said, 
airily.  "  Elvin  won't  want  to  wait.  Good-by, 
Dilly  !  I  '11  tell  father.  Good-by,  Molly  Drew  ! " 

But  Dilly  followed  her  down  to  the  road, 
where  Elvin  stood  waiting  with  the  reins  in  his 
hands.  He  was  a  very  blond  young  man,  with 
curly  hair,  and  eyes  honest  in  contour  and  clear 
of  glance.  Perhaps  his  coloring  impressed  one 
with  the  fact  that  he  should  have  looked  very 
young  ;  but  his  face  shrunk  now  behind  a  subtile 
veil  of  keen  anxiety,  of  irritated  emotion,  which 
were  evidently  quite  foreign  to  him.  Even  a 
stranger,  looking  at  him,  could  hardly  help  sus 
pecting  an  alien  trouble  grafted  upon  a  healthy 
stem.  He  gave  Dilly  a  pleasant  little  nod,  in 
the  act  of  turning  eagerly  to  help  Rosa  into  the 
wagon.  But  when  he  would  have  followed  her, 
Dilly  laid  a  light  but  imperative  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"Don't  you  want  your  fortune  told?"  she 
asked,  meaningly.  "  Here  's  the  witch  all  ready. 
Ain't  it  well  for  me  I  wa'n't  born  a  hunderd 
year  ago?  Shouldn't  I  ha'  sizzled  well?  An' 
now,  all  there  is  to  burn  me  is  God  A'mighty's 
sunshine  !  " 

Elvin  laughed  lightly. 

"  I  guess  I  don't  need  any  fortune,"  he  said. 
"  Mine  looks  pretty  fair  now.  I  don't  feel  as  if 


AT   SUD LEIGH    FAIR.  199 

anybody  'd  better  meddle  with  it."  But  he  had 
not  withdrawn  his  arm,  and  his  gaze  still  dwelt 
on  hers. 

"You  know  suthin'  you  don't  mean  to  tell," 
said  Dilly,  speaking  so  rapidly  that  although 
Rosa  bent  forward  to  listen,  she  caught  only  a 
word,  here  and  there.  "  You  think  you  won't 
have  to  tell,  but  you  will.  God  A'mighty  '11 
make  you.  You  '11  be  a  stranger  among  your 
own  folks,  an'  a  wanderer  on  the  earth  till  you 
tell.  There  !  go  along  !  Go  an'  see  the  pun- 
kins  an'  crazy-quilts  !  " 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  turned  away. 
Elvin,  his  face  suddenly  blanched,  looked  after 
her,  fascinated,  while  she  went  quickly  up  the 
garden  walk.  An  impatient  word  from  Rosa 
recalled  him  to  himself,  and  he  got  heavily  into 
the  wagon  and  drove  on  again. 

When  Dilly  reached  the  steps  where  her 
new  guest  had  seated  herself,  her  manner 
had  quite  changed.  It  breathed  an  open  frank 
ness,  a  sweet  and  homely  warmth  which  were 
very  engaging.  Molly  spoke  first. 

"  How  pleased  he  is  with  her  !  "  she  said, 
dreamily. 

"Yes,"  answered  Dilly,  "but  to-day  ain't  to- 
morrer.  They  're  both  light-complected.  It 's 
jest  like  patchwork.  Put  light  an'  dark  together, 
I  say,  or  you  won't  git  no  figger.  Here,  le's 
have  a  mite  o'  cake  !  Mis'  Tolman 's  a  proper 


200  MEADOW-GRASS. 

good  cook,  if  her  childern  have  all  turned  out 
ducks,  an'  took  to  the  water.  Every  one  on 
'em  's  took  back  as  much  as  three  generations 
for  their  noses  an'  tempers.  Strange  they  had 
to  go  so  fur  !  " 

She  broke  the  rich  brown  loaf  in  the  middle, 
and  divided  a  piece  with  Molly.  Such  were  the 
habits  calculated  to  irritate  the  conventionalities 
of  Tiverton  against  her.  Who  ever  heard  of 
breaking  cake  when  one  could  go  into  the  house 
for  a  knife  !  They  ate  in  silence,  and  the  de 
lights  of  the  summer  day  grew  upon  Molly  as 
they  never  did  save  when  she  felt  the  nearness 
of  this  queer  little  woman.  Turn  which  side 
of  her  personality  she  might  toward  you,  Dilly 
could  always  bend  you  to  her  own  train  of 
thought. 

"  I  come  down  to  talk  things  over,"  said 
Molly,  at  last,  brushing  the  crumbs  of  cake 
from  her  lap.  "  I  've  got  a  chance  in  the  shoe- 
shop." 

"  Do  tell  !  Well,  ain't  that  complete?  Don't 
you  say  one  word,  now !  I  know  how  'tis. 
You  think  how  you  '11  have  to  give  up  the  birds' 
singin',  an'  your  goin'  into  the  woods  arter 
groundpine,  an'  stay  cooped  up  in  a  boardin'- 
house  to  Sudleigh.  I  know  how  'tis !  But 
don't  you  fret.  You  come  right  here  an'  stay 
Sundays,  an'  we  '11  eat  up  the  woods  an'  drink 
up  the  sky  !  There  !  It 's  better  for  ye,  dear. 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  201 

Some  folks  are  made  to  live  in  a  holler  tree, 
like  me  ;  some  ain't.  You  '11  be  better  on  't 
among  folks." 

Molly's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"You've  been  real  good  to  me,"  she  said, 
simply. 

"  I  wish  I  'd  begun  it  afore,"  responded  Dilly, 
with  a  quick  upward  lift  of  her  head,  and  her 
brightest  smile.  "You  see  I  didn't  know  ye 
very  well,  for  all  you  'd  lived  with  old  Mis'  Drew 
so  many  year.  I  'ain't  had  much  to  do  with 
folks.  I  knew  ye  hadn't  got  nobody  except 
her,  but  I  knew,  too,  ye  were  contented  there 
as  a  cricket.  But  when  she  died,  an'  the  house 
burnt  down,  I  begun  to  wonder  what  was  goin" 
to  become  on  ye." 

Molly  sat  looking  over  at  the  pine  woods, 
her  lips  compressed,  her  cheeks  slowly  redden 
ing.  Finally  she  burst  passionately  forth,  — 

"  Dilly,  I  'd  like  to  know  why  I  couldn't  have 
got  some  rooms  an'  kep'  house  for  Elvin?  His 
mother  's  my  own  aunt !  " 

"  She  wa'n't  his  mother,  ye  know.  She  was 
his  stepmother,  for  all  they  set  so  much  by  one 
another.  Folks  would  ha'  talked,  an'  I  guess 
Rosy  wouldn't  ha'  stood  that,  even  afore  they 
were  engaged.  Rosy  may  not  like  corn-fodder 
herself,  any  more  'n  t'other  dog  did,  but  she 
ain't  goin'  to  see  other  noses  put  into  't  without 
snappin'  at  'em." 


202  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Well,  it 's  all  over,"  said  Molly,  drearily. 
"  It  'ain't  been  hard  for  me  stayin'  round  as  I  've 
done,  an'  sewin'  for  my  board  ;  but  it 's  seemed 
pretty  tough  to  think  of  Elvin  livin'  in  that 
little  shanty  of  Caleb's  an'  doin'  for  himself.  I 
never  could  see  why  he  didn't  board  some- 
wheres  decent." 

"  WTants  to  save  his  six  hunderd  dollars,  to 
go  out  West  an'  start  in  the  furniture  business," 
said  Dilly,  succinctly.  "  Come,  Molly,  what  say 
to  walkin'  over  to  Sudleigh  Cattle-Show?  " 

Molly  threw  aside  her  listless  mood  like  a 
garment. 

"  Will  you?  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  I  'd  like  to  ! 
You  know  I  'm  sewin'  for  Mis'  Eli  Pike  ;  an' 
they  asked  me  to  go,  but  I  knew  she  'd  fill  up 
the  seat  so  I  should  crowd  'em  out  of  house 
an'  home.  Will  you,  Dilly?" 

"  You  wait  till  I  git  suthin'  or  other  to  put 
over  my  head,"  said  Dilly,  rising  with  cheerful 
decision.  "  Here,  you  gi'  me  that  cake  !  I  '11 
tie  it  up  in  a  nice  clean  piece  o'  table-cloth,  an' 
then  we  '11  take  along  a  few  eggs,  so  't  we  can 
trade  'em  off  for  bread  an'  cheese.  You  jest  pull 
in  my  sheets,  an'  shet  the  winder,  while  I  do  it. 
Like  as  not  there  '11  be  a  shower  this  arternoon." 

When  the  little  gate  closed  behind  them, 
Molly  felt  eagerly  excited,  as  if  she  were  setting 
forth  for  a  year's  happy  wandering.  Dilly  knew 
the  ways  of  the  road  as  well  as  the  wood.  She 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  203 

was,  as  usual,  in  light  marching  order,  a  hand 
kerchief  tied  over  her  smooth  braids ;  another, 
slung  on  a  stick  over  her  shoulder,  contained 
their  luncheon  and  the  eggs  for  barter.  All  her 
movements  were  buoyant  and  free,  like  those 
of  a  healthy  animal  let  loose  in  pleasant  pas 
tures.  She  walked  so  lightly  that  the  eggs  in 
the  handkerchief  were  scarcely  stirred. 

"  See  that  little  swampy  patch  !  "  she  said, 
stopping  when  they  had  rounded  the  curve  in 
the  road.  "  A  week  or  two  ago,  that  was  all 
alive  with  redbird  flowers.  I  dunno  the  right 
name  on  'em,  an'  I  don't  care.  Redbirds,  I  call 
'em.  I  went  over  there,  one  day,  an'  walked 
along  between  the  hummocks,  spush  !  spush  ! 
You  won't  find  a  nicer  feelin'  than  that,  wher 
ever  ye  go.  Take  off  your  shoes  an'  stockin's, 
an'  wade  into  a  swamp  !  Warm,  coarse  grass 
atop  !  Then  warm,  black  mud,  an'  arter  that,  a 
layer  all  nice  an'  cold  that  goes  down  to  Chiny, 
fur  's  I  know  !  That  was  the  day  I  meant  to  git 
some  thoroughwort  over  there,  to  dry,  but  I 
looked  at  the  redbird  flowers  so  long  I  didn't 
have  time,  an'  I  never  've  been  sence." 

Molly  laughed  out,  with  a  pretty,  free  ripple 
in  her  voice. 

"  You  're  always  sayin'  that,  Dilly  !  You  never 
have  time  for  anything  but  doin'  nothin'  !  " 

A  bright  little  sparkle  came  into  Dilly's  eyes, 
and  she  laughed,  too. 


204  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Why,  that 's  what  made  me  give  up  nussin' 
two  year  ago,"  she  said,  happily.  "  I  wa'n't 
havin'  no  time  at  all.  I  couldn't  live  my  proper 
life.  I  al'ays  knew  I  should  come  to  that,  so  I  'd 
raked  an'  scraped,  an'  put  into  the  bank,  till 
I  thought  I  'd  got  enough  to  buy  me  a  mite  o' 
flour  while  I  lived,  an'  a  pine  coffin  arter  I 
died ;  an'  then  I  jest  set  up  my  Ebenezer  I  'd 
be  as  free  's  a  bird.  Freer,  I  guess  I  be,  for 
they  have  to  scratch  pretty  hard,  come  cold 
weather,  an'  I  bake  me  a  'tater,  an'  then  go 
clippin'  out  over  the  crust,  lookin"  at  the  bare 
twigs.  Oh,  it 's  complete  !  If  I  could  live  this 
way,  I  guess  a  thousand  years  'd  be  a  mighty 
small  dose  for  me.  Look  at  that  goldenrod, 
over  there  by  the  stump  !  That 's  the  kind  that 's 
got  the  most  smell." 

Molly  broke  one  of  the  curving  plumes. 

"  I  don't  see  as  it  smells  at  all,"  she  said,  still 
sniffing  delicately. 

"  Le'me  take  it !  Why,  yes,  it  does,  too  ! 
Everything  smells  some.  Oftentimes  it 's  so 
faint  it 's  more  like  a  feelin'  than  a  smell.  But 
there  !  you  ain't  a  witch,  as  I  be  !  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  that !  "  put  in  Molly) 
courageously.  "  You  make  people  think  you 
are." 

"  Law,  then,  let  'em  ! "  said  Dilly,  with  a 
kindly  indulgence.  "  It  don't  do  them  no  hurt, 
an'  it  gives  me  more  fun'n  the  county  news- 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  205 

paper.  They  'd  ruther  I  'd  say  I  was  a  witch 'n 
tell  'em  I  Ve  got  four  eyes  an'  eight  ears  where 
they  'ain't  but  two.  I  tell  ye,  there's  a  good 
deal  missed  when  ye  stay  to  home  makin'  pies, 
an'  a  good  deal  ye  can  learn  if  ye  live  out-door. 
Why,  there  's  Tolman's  cows  !  He  dunno  why 
they  dry  up ;  but  I  do.  He  sends  that  little 
Davie  with  'em,  that  don't  have  no  proper  play 
time  ;  an'  Davie  gallops  'em  all  the  way  to 
pastur',  so  't  he  can  have  a  minute  to  fish  in  the 
brook.  An'  then  he  gallops  'em  home  ag'in, 
because  he  's  stole  a  piece  out  o'  the  arternoon. 
I  ketched  him  down  there  by  the  brook,  one 
day,  workin'  away  with  a  bent  pin,  an'  the  next 
mornin'  I  laid  a  fish-hook  on  the  rock,  an'  hid 
in  the  woods  to  see  what  he  'd  say.  My  !  I  guess 
Jonah  wa'n't  more  tickled  when  he  set  foot  on 
dry  land.  Here  comes  the  wagons  !  There  's 
the  Poorhouse  team  fust,  an'  Sally  Flint  settin' 
up  straighter  'n  a  ramrod.  An'  there  's  Heman 
an'  Roxy !  She  don't  look  a  day  older  'n 
twenty-five.  Proper  nice  folks,  all  on  'em,  but 
they  make  me  kind  o'  homesick  jest  because 
they  be  folks.  They  do  look  ?o  sort  o'  common 
in  their  bunnits  an'  veils,  an'  I  keep  thinkin'  o' 
little  four-legged  creatur's,  all  fur  !  "  The  Tiver- 
ton  folk  saluted  them,  always  cordially,  yet 
each  after  his  kind.  They  liked  Dilly  as  a 
product  all  their  own,  but  one  to  be  partaken 
of  sparingly,  like  some  wild,  intoxicating  root. 


206  MEADOW-GRASS. 

They  loved  her  better  at  home,  too,  than  at  Sud- 
leigh  Fair.  It  was  like  a  betrayal  of  their  fire 
side  secrets,  to  see  her  there  in  her  accustomed 
garb ;  so  slight  a  concession  to  propriety  would 
have  lain  in  her  putting  on  a  bonnet  and  shawl ! 

As  they  neared  Sudleigh  town,  the  road  grew 
populous  with  carriages  and  farm-wagons,  "  step 
and  step,"  not  all  from  Tiverton  way,  but 
gathered  in  from  the  roads  converging  here. 
Men  were  walking  up  and  down  the  market 
street,  crying  their  whips,  their  toy  balloons, 
and  a  multitude  of  cheaper  gimcracks. 

"  Forty  miles  from  home  !  forty  miles  from 
home  !  "  called  one,  more  imaginative  than  the 
rest.  "  And  no  place  to  lay  my  head  !  That 's 
why  I  'm  selling  these  little  whips  here  to-day, 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  Buy  one  !  buy 
one  !  and  the  poor  pilgrim  '11  have  a  supper 
and  a  bed  !  Keep  your  money  in  your  pocket, 
and  he  's  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth  !" 

Dilly,  the  fearless  in  her  chosen  wilds,  took  a 
fold  of  Molly  's  dress,  and  held  it  tight. 

"You  s'pose  that's  so?"  she  whispered. 
"  Oh,  dear  !  I  'ain't  got  a  mite  o'  money,  on'y 
these  six  eggs.  Oh,  why  didn't  he  stay  to 
home,  if  he  's  so  possessed  to  sleep  under  cover? 
What  does  anybody  leave  their  home  for,  if 
they  've  got  one?  " 

But  Molly  put  up  her  head,  and  walked 
sturdily  on. 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  207 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  she  counselled,  in  an 
undertone.  "  It  don't  mean  any  more  'n  it  does 
when  folks  say  they  're  sellin'  at  a  sacrifice.  I 
guess  they  expect  to  make  enough,  take  it  all 
together." 

Dilly  walked  on,  quite  bewildered.  She  had 
lost  her  fine,  joyous  carriage ;  her  shoulders 
were  bent,  and  her  feet  shuffled,  in  a  discour 
aged  fashion,  over  the  unlovely  bricks.  Molly 
kept  the  lead,  with  unconscious  superiority. 

"  Le's  go  into  the  store  now,"  she  said,  "an' 
swap  off  the  eggs.  You  '11  be  joggled  in  this 
crowd,  an'  break  'em  all  to  smash.  Here,  you 
le'  me  have  your  handkerchief !  I  '11  see  to 
it  all."  She  kept  the  handkerchief  in  her  hand, 
after  their  slight  "  tradin'  "  had  been  accom 
plished  ;  and  Dilly,  too  dispirited  to  offer  a  word, 
walked  meekly  about  after  her. 

The  Fair  was  held,  according  to  ancient 
custom,  in  the  town-hall,  of  which  the  upper 
story  had  long  been  given  over  to  Sudleigh 
Academy.  Behind  the  hall  lay  an  enormous 
field,  roped  in  now,  and  provided  with  pens  and 
stalls,  where  a  great  assemblage  of  live-stock 
lowed,  and  grunted,  and  patiently  chewed  the 
cud. 

"  Le's  go  in  there  fust,"  whispered  Dilly. 
"  I  sha'n't  feel  so  strange  there  as  I  do  with 
folks.  I  guess  if  the  four-footed  creatur's  can 
stan'  it,  I  can.  Pretty  darlin'  !  "  she  added, 


208  MEADOW-GRASS. 

stopping  before  a  heifer  who  had  ceased  eat 
ing  and  was  looking  about  her  with  a  mild 
and  dignified  gaze.  Dilly  eagerly  sought  out 
a  stick,  and  began  to  scratch  the  delicate 
head.  "  Pretty  creatur'  !  Smell  o'  her  breath, 
Molly !  See  her  nose,  all  wet,  like  pastur' 
grass  afore  day  !  Now,  if  I  didn't  want  to  live 
by  myself,  I  'd  like  to  curl  me  up  in  a  stall,  'side 
o'  her." 

"  'Mandy,  you  an'  Kelup  come  here  !  "  called 
Aunt  Melissa  Adams.  She  loomed  very  pros 
perous,  over  the  way,  in  her  new  poplin  and 
her  lace-trimmed  cape.  "Jest  look  at  these 
roosters  !  They  've  got  spurs  on  their  legs  as 
long 's  my  darnin'-needle.  What  under  the 
sun  makes  'em  grow  so  !  An'  ain't  they  the 
nippin'est  little  creatur's  you  ever  see?" 

"  They  're  fightin'-cocks,"  answered  Caleb, 
tolerantly. 

"Fightin'-cocks?  You  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  they're  trained  up  for  that?" 

"Yes,  I  do!" 

"  Well,  I  never  heard  o'  such  a  thing  in  a 
Christian  land  !  never  !  Whose  be  they?  I  '11 
give  him  a  piece  o'  my  mind,  if  I  live  another 
minute  !  " 

"  You  better  let  other  folks  alone,"  said  Caleb, 
stolidly. 

"  'Mandy,"  returned  Aunt  Melissa,  in  a  por 
tentous  undertone,  "be  you  goin'  to  stan'  by 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  209 

an'  see  your  own  aunt  spoke  to  as  if  she  was  the 
dirt  under  your  feet?  " 

Amanda  had  once  in  her  life  asserted  herself 
at  a  crucial  moment,  and  she  had  never  seen 
cause  to  regret  it.  Now  she  "spoke  out"  again- 
She  made  her  slender  neck  very  straight  and 
stiff,  and  her  lips  set  themselves  firmly  over  the 
words, — 

"  I  guess  Caleb  won't  do  you  no  hurt,  Aunt 
Melissa.  He  don't  want  you  should  make  your 
self  a  laughin'-stock,  nor  I  don't  either.  There  's 
Uncle  Hiram,  over  lookin'  at  the  pigs.  I  guess 
he  don't  see  you.  Caleb,  le's  we  move  on  !  " 

Aunt  Melissa  stood  looking  after  them,  a 
mass  of  quivering  wrath. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  !  "  she  retorted  to  the 
empty  air.  "  If  I  live,  I  must  say  !  " 

Dilly  took  her  placid  companion  by  the  arm, 
and  hurried  her  on.  Human  jangling  wore 
sadly  upon  her ;  under  such  maddening  on 
slaught  she  was  not  incapable  of  developing 
"nerves."  They  stopped  before  a  stall  where 
another  heifer  stood,  chewing  her  cud,  and  look 
ing  away  into  remembered  pastures. 

"Oh,  see!"  said  Molly.  "'Price  $500'! 
Do  you  b'lieve  it?" 

"  Well,  well  !  "    came  Mrs.  Eli  Pike's  rumi 
nant  voice  from  the  crowd.     "I'm  glad  I  don't 
own  that  creatur'  !     I  shouldn't  sleep  nights  if 
I  had  five  hunderd   dollars  in  cow." 
14 


2 1  o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  'Tain't  five  hunderd  dollars,"  said  Hiram 
Cole,  elbowing  his  way  to  the  front.  "  'Tain't 
p'inted  right,  that 's  all.  P'int  off  two  ciphers  —  " 

"  Five  dollars  !  "  snickered  a  Crane  boy,  div 
ing  through  the  crowd,  and  proceeding  to  stand 
on  his  head  in  a  cleared  space  beyond.  "That 's 
wuth  less  'n  Miss  Lucindy's  hoss  !  " 

Hiram  Cole  considered  again,  one  lean  hand 
stroking  his  cheek. 

"Five  —  fifty—  '  he  announced.  "Well,  I 
guess  'tis  five  hunderd,  arter  all !  Anybody 
must  want  to  invest,  though,  to  put  all  their 
income  into  perishable  cow- flesh!" 

"You  look  real  tired,"  whispered  Molly. 
"  Le's  come  inside,  an'  perhaps  we  can  se' 
down." 

The  old  hall  seemed  to  have  donned  strange 
carnival  clothes,  for  a  mystic  Saturnalia.  It 
was  literally  swaddled  in  bedquilts,  —  tumbler- 
quilts,  rising-suns,  Jacob's-ladders,  log-cabins, 
and  the  more  modern  and  altogether  terrible 
crazy-quilt.  There  were  square  yards  of  tidies, 
on  wall  and  table,  and  furlongs  of  home-knit 
lace.  Dilly  looked  at  this  product  of  the  patient 
art  of  woman  with  a  dispirited  gaze. 

"  Seems  a  kind  of  a  waste  of  time,  don't  it?  " 
she  said,  dreamily,  "when  things  are  blowin' 
outside  ?  I  wisht  I  could  see  suthin'  made  once 
to  look  as  handsome  as  green  buds  an'  branches. 
Law,  dear,  now  jest  turn  your  eyes  away  from 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  211 

them  walls,  an'  see  the  tables  full  of  apples  !  an' 
them  piles  o'  carrots,  an'  cabbages  an'  squashes 
over  there  !  Well,  'tain't  so  bad  if  you  can 
look  at  things  the  sun 's  ever  shone  on,  no 
matter  if  they  be  under  cover."  She  wandered 
up  and  down  the  tables,  caressing  the  rounded 
outlines  of  the  fruit  with  her  loving  gaze.  The 
apples,  rich  and  fragrant,  were  a  glory  and  a 
joy.  There  were  great  pound  sweetings,  full  of 
the  pride  of  mere  bigness ;  long  purple  gilly 
flowers,  craftily  hiding  their  mealy  joys  under  a 
sad-colored  skin  ;  and  the  Hubbardston,  a  portly 
creature  quite  unspoiled  by  the  prosperity  of 
growth,  and  holding  its  lovely  scent  and  flavor 
like  an  individual  charm.  There  was  the 
Bald'in,  stand-by  old  and  good  as  bread ;  and 
there  were  all  the  rest.  We  know  them,  we 
who  have  courted  Pomona  in  her  fair  New 
England  orchards. 

Near  the  fancy-work  table  sat  Mrs.  Blair,  of 
the  Old  Ladies'  Home,  on  a  stool  she  had 
wrenched  from  an  unwilling  boy,  who  declared 
it  belonged  up  in  the  Academy,  whence  he  had 
brought  it  "  to  stan'  on  "  wh^e  he  drove  a  nail. 
And  though  he  besought  her  to  rise  and  let 
him  return  it,  since  he  alone  must  be  respon 
sible,  the  old  lady  continued  sitting  in  silence. 
At  length  she  spoke,  — 

"  Here  I  be,  an'  here  I  'm  goin'  to  set  till  the 
premiums  is  tacked  on.  Them  pinballs  my 


212  MEADOW-GRASS. 

neighbor,  Mis'  Dyer,  made  with  her  own  hands, 
an'  she  's  bent  double  o'  rheumatiz.  An'  I  said 
I  'd  bring  'em  for  her,  an'  I  'd  set  by  an'  see 
things  done  fair  an'  square." 

"There,  Mrs.  Blair,  don't  you  worry,"  said 
Mrs.  Mitchell,  a  director  of  the  Home,  putting 
a  hand  on  the  martial  and  belligerent  shoulder. 
"  Don't  you  mind  if  she  doesn't  get  a  premium. 
I  '11  buy  the  pinballs,  and  that  will  do  almost  as 
well." 

"  My  !  if  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  trouble  be 
tween  Mary  Lamson  an"  Serene's  Hattie,  I  '11 
miss  my  guess  !  "  said  a  matron,  with  an  appre 
ciative  wag  of  her  purple-bonneted  head. 
"  They  've  either  on  'em  canned  up  more  pre 
serves  'n  Tiverton  an'  Sudleigh  put  together,  an' 
Mary  's  got  I  dunno  what  all  among  'em  !  — 
squash,  an'  dandelion,  an'  punkin  with  lemon 
in  't.  That 's  steppin'  acrost  the  bounds,  /say  ! 
If  she  gits  a  premium  for  puttin'  up  gardin-sass, 
I  '11  warrant  there  '11  be  a  to-do.  An'  Hattie  '11 
make  it !  " 

"  I  guess  there  won't  be  no  set-to  about  such 
small  potaters."  said  Mrs.  Pike,  with  dignity. 
Her  broad  back  had  been  unrecognized  by  the 
herald,  careless  in  her  haste.  "  Hattie  's  ready 
an'  willin'  to  divide  the  premium,  if 't  comes  to 
her,  an'  I  guess  Mary  'd  be,  put  her  in  the  same 
place." 

"My  soul   an'   body!"    exclaimed    another, 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  213 

trudging  up  and  waving  a  large  palmleaf  fan. 
"  Well,  there,  Rosanna  Pike  !  Is  that  you  ? 
Excuse  me  all,  if  I  don't  stop  to  speak  round 
the  circle,  I  'm  so  put  to  't  with  Passon  True's 
carryin's  on.  You  know  he  's  been  as  mad  as 
hops  over  Sudleigh  Cattle-Show,  reg'lar  as  the 
year  come  round,  because  there  's  a  raffle  for  a 
quilt  or  suthin'.  An'  now  he  's  come  an'  set  up 
a  sort  of  a  stall  over  t'other  side  the  room,  an' 
folks  thinks  he  's  tryin'  to  git  up  a  revival.  I 
dunno  when  I  Ye  seen  John  so  stirred.  He 
says  we  hadn't  ought  to  be  made  a  laughin'- 
stock  to  Sudleigh,  Passon  or  no  Passon.  An' 
old  Square  Lamb  says  —  " 

But  the  fickle  crowd  waited  to  hear  no  more. 
With  one  impulse,  it  surged  over  to  the  other 
side  of  the  hall,  where  Parson  True,  standing 
behind  a  table  brought  down  from  the  Academy, 
was  saying  solemnly, — 

"  Let  us  engage  in  prayer  !  " 

The  whispering  ceased  ;  the  titters  of  em 
barrassment  were  stilled,  and  mothers  tightened 
their  grasp  on  little  hands,  to  emphasize  the 
change  of  scene  from  light  to  graver  hue. 
Some  of  the  men  looked  lowering ;  one  or  two 
strode  out  of  doors.  They  loved  Parson  True, 
but  the  Cattle-Show  was  all  their  own,  and  they 
resented  even  a  ministerial  innovation.  The 
parson  was  a  slender,  wiry  man,  with  keen  blue 
eyes,  a  serious  mouth,  and  an  overtopping 


2 1 4  MEADOW-GRASS. 

forehead,  from  which  the  hair  was  always 
brushed  straight  back.  He  called  upon  the 
Lord,  with  passionate  fervor,  to  "  bless  this 
people  in  all  their  outgoings  and  comings-in, 
and  to  keep  their  feet  from  paths  where  His 
blessing  could  not  attend  them." 

"Is  that  the  raffle,  mother?"  whispered  the 
smallest  Crane  boy ;  and  his  mother  promptly 
administered  a  shake,  for  the  correction  of  mis 
placed  curiosity. 

Then  Parson  True  opened  his  eyes  on  his 
somewhat  shamefaced  flock  and  their  neigh 
bor  townsmen,  and  began  to  preach.  It  was 
good  to  be  there,  he  told  them,  only  as  it  was 
good  to  be  anywhere  else,  in  the  spirit  of  God. 
Judgment  might  overtake  them  there,  as  it 
might  at  home,  in  house  or  field.  Were  they 
prepared?  He  bent  forward  over  the  table, 
his  slim  form  trembling  with  the  intensity  of 
gathering  passion.  He  appealed  to  each  one 
personally  with  that  vibratory  quality  of  address 
peculiar  to  him,  wherein  it  seemed  that  not  only 
his  lips  but  his  very  soul  challenged  the  souls 
before  him.  One  after  another  joined  the  outer 
circle,  and  faces  bent  forward  over  the  shoulders 
in  front,  with  that  strange,  arrested  expression 
inevitably  born  when,  on  the  flood  of  sunny 
weather,  we  are  reminded  how  deep  the  dark 
ness  is  within  the  grave. 

"  Let  every  man  say  to  himself,  '  Thou,  God, 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  215 

seest  me!'"  reiterated  the  parson.  "Thou 
seest  into  the  dark  corners  of  my  heart.  What 
dost  Thou  see,  O  God?  What  dost  Thou 
see?  " 

Elvin  and  Rosa  had  drawn  near  with  the 
others.  She  smiled  a  little,  and  the  hard 
bloom  on  her  cheeks  had  not  wavered.  No 
one  looked  at  them,  for  every  eye  dwelt  on  the 
preacher ;  and  though  Elvin's  face  changed 
from  the  healthy  certainty  of  life  and  hope  to 
a  green  pallor  of  self-recognition,  no  one  noticed. 
Consequently,  the  general  surprise  culminated  in 
a  shock  when  he  cried  out,  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  God  be  merciful !  God  be  merciful !  I  ain't 
fit  to  be  with  decent  folks  !  I  'd  ought  to  be  in 
jail !  "  and  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd 
until  he  stood  before  the  parson,  facing  him 
with  bowed  head,  as  if  he  found  in  the  little 
minister  the  vicegerent  of  God.  He  had  kept 
Rosa's  hand  in  a  convulsive  grasp,  and  he  drew 
her  with  him  into  the  eye  of  the  world.  She 
shrank  back,  whimpering  feebly ;  but  no  one 
took  note  of  her.  The  parson  knew  exactly 
what  to  do  when  the  soul  travailed  and  cried 
aloud.  He  stretched  forth  his  hands,  and  put 
them  on  the  young  man's  shoulders. 

'•'  Come,  poor  sinner,  come  !  "  he  urged,  in  a 
voice  of  wonderful  melting  quality.  "  Come  ! 
Here  is  the  throne  of  grace  !  Bring  your 
burden,  and  cast  it  down." 


216  MEADOW-GRASS. 

The  words  roused  Elvin,  or  possibly  the  re 
straining  touch.  He  started  back. 

"  I  can't !  "  he  cried  out,  stridently.  "  I 
can't  yet !  I  can't !  I  can't !  " 

Still  leading  Rosa,  who  was  crying  now  in 
good  earnest,  he  turned,  and  pushed  his  way 
out  of  the  crowd.  But  once  outside  that 
warm  human  circuit,  Rosa  broke  loose  from 
him.  She  tried  to  speak  for  his  ear  alone,  but 
her  voice  strove  petulantly  through  her  sobs  : 

"  Elvin  Drew,  I  should  think  you  'd  be 
ashamed  of  yourself!  You  've  made  me  ridic 
ulous  before  the  whole  town,  and  I  never  '11 
speak  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live.  If  I 
hadn't  stayed  with  you  every  minute,  I  should 
think  you  'd  been  drinking,  and  I  believe  to  my 
soul  you  have!"  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief,  and  stumbled  over  to  a  table 
where  Laura  Pettis  was  standing,  open-eyed 
with  amazement,  and  the  two  clasped  each 
other,  while  Rosa  cried  on.  Elvin  only  looked 
about  him,  in  a  bewildered  fashion,  when  the 
warm  hand  was  wrenched  away ;  then,  realizing 
that  he  was  quite  alone,  his  head  bent  under  a 
deeper  dejection.  He  seemed  unable  to  move 
from  the  spot,  and  stood  there  quite  stupidly, 
until  murmurs  of  "  What  's  the  matter  of  him?  " 
came  from  the  waiting  crowd,  and  Parson  True 
himself  advanced,  with  hands  again  outstretched. 
But  Dilly  Joyce  forestalled  the  parson.  She,  too, 


AT   SUDLEIGH   FAIR.  217 

came  forward,  in  her  quick  way,  and  took  Elvin 
firmly  by  the  arm. 

"Here,  dear,"  she  said,  caressingly,  "you 
come  along  out-doors  with  us  !  " 

Elvin  turned,  still  hanging  his  head,  and  the 
three  (for  little  Molly  had  come  up  on  the 
other  side,  trying  to  stand  very  tall  to  show  her 
championship)  walked  out  of  the  hall  together. 
Dilly  had  ever  a  quick  eye  for  green,  growing 
things,  and  she  remembered  a  little  corner  of 
the  enclosure,  where  one  lone  elm-tree  stood 
above  a  bank.  Thither  she  led  him,  with  an 
assured  step ;  and  when  they  had  reached  the 
shadow,  she  drew  him  forward,  and  said,  still 
tenderly,  — 

"There,  dear,  you  set  right  down  here  an' 
think  it  over.  We  '11  stay  with  ye.  We  '11 
never  forsake  ye,  will  we,  Molly?" 

Molly,  who  did  not  know  what  it  was  all 
about,  had  no  need  to  know.  "  Never  !  "  she 
said,  stanchly. 

The  three  sat  down  there ;  and  first  the  slow 
minutes,  and  then  the  hours,  went  by.  It  had 
not  been  long  before  some  one  found  out  where 
they  were,  and  curious  groups  began  to  wander 
past,  always  in  silence,  but  eying  them  intently. 
Elvin  sat  with  his  head  bent,  looking  fixedly  at 
a  root  of  plantain ;  but  Molly  confronted  the 
alien  faces  with  a  haughty  challenging  stare, 
while  her  cheeks  painted  themselves  ever  a 


218  MEADOW-GRASS. 

deeper  red.  Dilly  leaned  happily  back  against 
the  elm  trunk,  and  dwelt  upon  the  fleece-hung 
sky ;  and  her  blue  eyes  grew  still  calmer  and 
more  content.  She  looked  as  if  she  had 
learned  what  things  are  lovely  and  of  good 
repute.  When  the  town-clock  struck  noon, 
she  brought  forth  their  little  luncheon,  and 
pressed  it  upon  the  others,  with  a  nice  hos 
pitality.  Elvin  shook  his  head,  but  Molly  ate  a 
trifle,  for  pride's  sake. 

"  You  go  an'  git  him  a  mite  o'  water,"  whis 
pered  Dilly,  when  they  had  finished.  '•'  I 
would,  but  I  dunno  the  ways  o'  this  place. 
It  '11  taste  good  to  him." 

Molly  nodded,  and  hurried  away ;  presently 
she  came  back,  bearing  a  tin  cup,  and  Elvin 
drank,  though  he  did  not  thank  her. 

In  the  early  afternoon,  Ebenezer  Tolman 
came  striding  down  between  the  pens  in  osten 
tatious  indignation.  He  was  a  tall,  red-faced 
man,  with  a  large,  loose  mouth,  and  blond- 
gray  whiskers,  always  parted  and  blowing  in 
the  wind.  He  wore,  with  manifest  pride,  the 
reputation  of  being  a  dangerous  animal  when 
roused.  He  had  bought  a  toy  whip,  at  little 
Davie's  earnest  solicitation,  and,  lashing  it  sug 
gestively  against  his  boot,  he  began  speaking 
long  before  he  reached  the  little  group.  The 
lagging  crowd  of  listeners  paused,  breathless,  to 
lose  no  word. 


AT  SUDLEIGH   FAIR.  219 

"  Look  here,  you  !  don't  ye  darken  my  doors 
ag'in,  an'  don't  ye  dast  to  open  your  head  to 
one  o'  my  folks  !  We  're  done  with  ye  !  Do 
you  hear?  We  're  done  with  ye  !  Rosy  '11  ride 
home  with  me  to-night,  an'  she  '11  ride  with  you 
no  more  !  " 

Elvin  said  nothing,  though  his  brow  con 
tracted  suddenly  at  Rosa's  name.  Ebenezer 
was  about  to  speak  again ;  but  the  little  parson 
came  striding  swiftly  up,  his  long  coat  flying 
behind  him,  and  Tolman,  who  was  a  church- 
member,  in  good  and  regular  standing,  moved 
on.  But  the  parson  was  routed,  in  his  turn. 
Dilly  rose,  and,  as  some  one  afterwards  said, 
"clipped  it  right  up  to  him." 

"  Don't  you  come  now,  dear,"  she  advised 
him,  in  that  persuasive  voice  of  hers.  "  No, 
don't  you  come  now.  He  ain't  ready.  You 
go  away,  an'  let  him  set  an'  think  it  out."  And 
the  parson,  why  he  knew  not,  turned  about, 
and  went  humbly  back  to  his  preaching  in  the 
hall. 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  and  it  began  to  seem 
as  if  Elvin  would  never  break  from  his  trance, 
and  never  speak.  Finally,  after  watching  him 
a  moment  with  her  keen  eyes,  Dilly  touched 
him  lightly  on  the  arm. 

"The  Tolmans  have  drove  home,"  she  said, 
quietly.  "  Ail  on  'em.  What  if  you  should 
git  your  horse,  an'  take  Molly  an'  me  along?" 


220  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Elvin  came  to  his  feet  with  a  lurch.  He 
straightened  himself. 

"  I  've  got  to  talk  to  the  parson,"  said  he. 

"So  I  thought,"  answered  Dilly,  with  com 
posure,  "  but  'tain't  no  place  here.  You  ask 
him  to  ride,  an'  let  Miss  Dorcas  drive  home 
alone.  We  four  '11  stop  at  my  house,  an'  then 
you  can  talk  it  over." 

Elvin  obeyed,  like  a  child  tired  of  his  own 
way.  When  they  packed  themselves  into  the 
wagon,  —  where  Dilly  insisted  on  sitting  behind, 
to  make  room,  —  the  Tiverton  and  Sudleigh 
people  stood  about  in  groups,  to  watch  them. 
Hiram  Cole  came  forward,  just  as  Elvin  took 
up  the  reins. 

"  Elvin,"  said  he,  in  a  cautious  whisper,  with 
his  accustomed  gesture  of  scraping  his  cheek, 
"  I  've  got  suthin'  to  say  to  ye.  Don't  ye  put 
no  money  into  Dan  Forbes's  hands.  I  Ve  had 
a  letter  from  brother  'Lisha,  out  in  Illinois,  an' 
he  says  that  business  Dan  wrote  to  you  about  — 
well,  there  never  was  none  !  There  'ain't  a  stick 
o'  furniture  made  there  !  An'  Dan  's  been  cut- 
tin'  a  dash  lately  with  money  he  got  som'er's  or 
other,  an'  he  's  gambled,  an'  I  dunno  what  all, 
an'  been  took  up.  An'  now  he  's  in  jail.  So 
don't  you  send  him  nothin'.  I  thought  I  'd 
speak." 

Elvin  looked  at  him  a  moment,  with  a  strange 
little  smile  dawning  about  his  mouth. 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  221 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  quickly,  and 
drove  away. 

To  Molly,  the  road  home  was  like  a  dark 
passage  full  of  formless  fears.  She  did  not  even 
know  what  had  befallen  the  dear  being  she  loved 
best ;  but  something  dire  and  tragic  had  stricken 
him,  and  therefore  her.  The  parson  was  acutely 
moved  for  the  anguish  he  had  not  probed.  Only 
Dilly  remained  cheerful.  When  they  reached 
her  gate,  it  was  she  who  took  the  halter  from 
Elvin's  hand,  and  tied  the  horse.  Then  she 
walked  up  the  path,  and  flung  open  her  front 
door. 

"  Come  right  into  the  settin'-room,"  she  said. 
"  I  '11  git  ye  some  water  right  out  o1  the  well. 
My  throat 's  all  choked  up  o'  dust." 

The  cheerful  clang  of  the  bucket  against  the 
stones,  the  rumble  of  the  windlass,  and  then 
Dilly  came  in  with  a  brimming  bright  tin  dipper. 
She  offered  it  first  to  the  parson,  and  though 
she  refilled  it  scrupulously  for  each  pair  of  lips, 
it  seemed  a  holy  loving-cup.  They  sat  there  in 
the  darkening  room,  and  Dilly  "stepped  round" 
and  began  to  get  supper.  Molly  nervously 
joined  her,  and  addressed  her,  once  or  twice, 
in  a  whisper.  But  Dilly  spoke  out  clearly  in 
answer,  as  if  rebuking  her. 

"  Le's  have  a  real  good  time,''  she  said,  when 
she  had  drawn  the  table  forward  and  set  forth 
her  bread,  and  apples,  and  tea.  "  Passon,  draw 


222  MEADOW-GRASS. 

up  !  You  drink  tea,  don't  ye  ?  I  don't,  myself. 
I  never  could  bear  to  spile  good  water.  But  I 
keep  it  on  hand  for  them  that  likes  it.  Elvin, 
here  !  You  take  this  good  big  apple.  It 's 
man's  size  more  'n  woman's-,  I  guess." 

Elvin  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  put  a  mouthful  of  victuals  to 
my  lips  till  I  make  up  my  mind  whether  I  can 
speak  or  not,"  he  said,  loudly. 

"  All  right,"  answered  Dilly,  placidly.  "  Bless 
ye  !  the  teapot  '11  be  goin'  all  night,  if  ye  say 
so." 

Only  Dilly  and  the  parson  made  a  meal ;  and 
when  it  was  over,  Parson  True  rose,  as  if  his 
part  of  the  strange  drama  must  at  last  begin, 
and  fell  on  his  knees. 

"  Let  us  pray  !  " 

Molly,  too,  knelt,  and  Elvin  threw  his  arms 
upon  the  table,  and  laid  his  head  upon  them. 
But  Dilly  stood  erect.  From  time  to  time,  she 
glanced  curiously  from  the  parson  to  the  lovely 
darkened  world  outside  her  little  square  of 
window,  and  smiled  slightly,  tenderly,  as  if  out 
there  she  saw  the  visible  God.  The  parson 
prayed  for  "  this  sick  soul,  our  brother,"  over 
and  over,  in  many  phrases,  and  with  true  and 
passionate  desire.  And  when  the  prayer  was 
done,  he  put  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoul 
der,  and  said,  with  a  yearning  persuasiveness, — 

"  Tell  it  now,  my  brother  !     Jesus  is  here." 


AT   SUDLEIGH    FAIR.  223 

Elvin  raised  his  head,  with  a  sudden  fierce 
gesture  toward  Dilly. 

"  She  knows,"  he  said.  "  She  can  see  the 
past.  She  '11  tell  you  what  I  've  done." 

"  I  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  tell,  dear,"  answered 
Dilly,  peacefully.  "  Everything  you  Ve  done  's 
between  you  an'  God  A'mighty.  I  'ain't  got 
nothin'  to  tell !  " 

Then  she  went  out,  and,  deftly  unharnessing 
the  horse,  put  him  in  her  little  shed,  and  gave 
him  a  feed  of  oats.  The  hens  had  gone  to  bed 
without  their  supper. 

"  No  matter,  biddies,"  she  said,  conversation 
ally,  as  she  passed  their  roost.  "  I  '11  make  it 
up  to  you  in  the  mornin'  !  " 

When  she  entered  the  house  again,  Elvin  still 
sat  there,  staring  stolidly  into  the  dusk.  The 
parson  was  praying,  and  Molly,  by  the  window, 
was  holding  the  sill  tightly  clasped  by  both  hands, 
as  if  threatening  herself  into  calm.  When  the 
parson  rose,  he  turned  to  Elvin,  less  like  the 
pastor  than  the  familiar  friend.  One  forgot 
his  gray  hairs  in  the  loving  simplicity  of  his 
tone. 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  tell  it  all  ! 
God  is  merciful." 

But  again  Dilly  put  in  her  voice. 

"  Don't  you  push  him,  Passon  !  Let  him 
speak  or  not,  jest  as  he  's  a  mind  to.  Let  God 
A'mighty  do  it  His  way  !  Don't  you  do  it !  " 


224  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Darkness  settled  in  the  room,  and  the  heav 
enly  hunter's-moon  rose  and  dispelled  it. 

"O  God!  can  I?"  broke  forth  the  young 
man.  "  O  God  !  if  I  tell,  I  '11  go  through  with 
it.  I  will,  so  help  me  !  " 

The  moving  patterns  of  the  vine  at  the 
window  began  to  etch  themselves  waveringly  on 
the  floor.  Dilly  bent,  and  traced  the  outline  of 
a  leaf  with  her  ringer. 

"  I  '11  tell !  "  cried  Elvin,  in  a  voice  exultant 
over  the  prospect  of  freedom.  "  I  '11  tell  it  all. 
I  wanted  money.  The  girl  I  meant  to  have 
was  goin'  with  somebody  else,  an'  I  'd  got  to 
scrape  together  some  money,  quick.  I  burnt 
down  my  house  an'  barn.  I  got  the  insurance 
money.  I  sent  some  of  it  out  West,  to  put  into 
that  furniture  business,  an'  Dan  Forbes  has 
made  way  with  it.  I  only  kept  enough  to  take 
Rosa  an'  me  out  there.  I  '11  give  up  that,  an' 
go  to  jail ;  an'  if  the  Lord  spares  my  life,  when 
I  come  out  I  '11  pay  it  back,  principal  an' 
int'rest." 

Molly  gave  one  little  moan,  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  The  parson  and  Dilly  rose, 
by  one  impulse,  and  went  forward  to  Elvin,  who 
sat 'upright,  trembling  from  excitement  past. 
Dilly  reached  him  first.  She  put  both  her 
hands  on  his  forehead,  and  smoothed  back  his 
hair. 

"  Dear  heart,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  thrilled 


AT   SUDLEIGH   FAIR.  225 

through  by  music,  —  "  dear  heart !  I  was 
abroad  that  night,  watchin'  the  stars,  an'  I  see  it 
all.  I  see  ye  do  it.  You  done  it  real  clever,  an' 
•I  come  nigh  hollerin'  out  to  ye,  I  was  so  pleased, 
when  I  see  you  was  determined  to  save  the  live 
stock.  An'  that  barn-cat,  dear,  that  old  black 
Tom  that 's  ketched  my  chickens  so  long  !  — you 
'most  broke  your  neck  to  save  him.  But  I  never 
should  ha'  told,  dear,  never  !  'specially  sence 
you  got  out  the  creatur's." 

"And  '  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made  alive  ! '  " 
said  the  parson,  wiping  his  eyes,  and  then  begin 
ning  to  pat  Elvin's  hand  with  both  his  own. 
"  Now,  what  shall  we  do  ?  What  shall  we  do  ? 
Why  not  come  home  with  me,  and  stay  over 
night  ?  My  dear  wife  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
And  the  morning  will  bring  counsel." 

Elvin  had  regained  a  fine  freedom  of  carriage, 
and  a  decision  of  tone  long  lost  to  him.  He 
was  dignified  by  the  exaltation  of  the  moment. 

"  I  've  got  it  all  fixed,"  he  said,  like  a  man. 
"  I  thought  it  all  out  under  that  elm-tree,  to 
day.  You  drive  me  over  to  Sheriff  Holmes's, 
an'  he'll  tell  me  what's  right  to  do, — whether 
I  'm  to  go  to  the  insurance  people,  or  whether 
I  'm  to  be  clapped  into  jail.  He  '11  know.  It 's 
out  o'  my  hands.  I'll  go  an'  harness  now." 

Parson  True   drew   Molly  forward  from   her 
corner,  and  held  her  hand,  while  he  took  Elvin's, 
and  motioned  Dilly  to  complete  the  circle. 
15 


226  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"Jesus  Christ  be  with  us  !  "  he  said,  solemnly. 
"  God,  our  Father,  help  us  to  love  one  another 
more  and  more  tenderly  because  of  our  sins  ! " 

While  Elvin  was  harnessing,  a  dark  figure 
came  swiftly  through  the  moonlight. 

"  Elvin,"  whispered  Molly,  sharply.  "  O 
Elvin,  I  can't  bear  it !  You  take  what  money 
you  've  got,  an'  go  as  fur  as  you  can.  Then 
you  work,  an'  I  '11  work,  an'  we  '11  pay  'em  back. 
What  good  will  it  do,  for  you  to  go  to  jail?  Oh, 
what  good  will  it  do  !  " 

"Poor  little  Molly!"  said  he.  "You  do 
care  about  me,  don't  you?  I  sha'n't  forget  that, 
wherever  I  am." 

Molly  came  forward,  and  threw  her  arms 
about  him  passionately. 

"Go!  go!"  she  whispered,  fiercely.  "Go 
now  !  I  '11  drive  you  some'er's  an'  bring  the 
horse  back.  Don't  wait !  I  don't  want  a  hat." 

Elvin  smoothed  her  hair. 

"  No,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  you  '11  see  it  dif 
ferent,  come  mornin'.  The  things  of  this  world 
ain't  everything.  Even  freedom  ain't  every 
thing.  There 's  somethhV  better.  Good-by, 
Molly.  I  don't  know  how  long  a  sentence  they 
give ;  but  when  they  let  me  out,  I  shall  come 
an'  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you  for  standin' 
by.  Parson  True  !  " 

The  parson  came  out,  and  Dilly  followed. 
When  the  two  men  were  seated  in  the  wagon, 


AT   SUDLEIGH   FAIR.  227 

she  bent  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on  Elvin's, 
as  it  held  the  reins. 

"Don't  you  be  afraid,"  she  said,  lovingly. 
"  If  they  shet  ye  up,  you  remember  there  ain't 
nothin'  to  be  afraid  of  but  wrong-doin',  an' 
that 's  only  a  kind  of  a  sickness  we  al'ays  git 
well  of.  An'  God  A'mighty  's  watchin'  over  us 
all  the  time.  An'  if  you  Ve  sp'iled  your  chance 
in  this  life,  don't  you  mind.  There 's  time 
enough.  Plenty  o'  time,  you  says  to  yourself, 
plenty  !  " 

She  drew  back,  and  they  drove  on.  Molly, 
in  heart-sick  sobbing,  threw  herself  forward 
into  the  little  woman's  arms,  and  Dilly  held  her 
with  an  unwearied  cherishing. 

"There,  there,  dear!"  she  said,  tenderly. 
"  Ain't  it  joyful  to  think  he  's  got  his  soul  out  o' 
prison,  where  he  shet  it  up  ?  He  's  all  free 
now.  It 's  jest  as  if  he  was  born  into  a  new 
world,  to  begin  all  over." 

"  But,  Dilly,  I  love  him  so  !  An'  I  can't  do 
anything  !  not  a  thing  !  O  Dilly,  yes  !  yes  ! 
Oh,  it 's  little  enough,  but  I  could  !  I  could 
save  my  shoe-shop  money,  an'  help  him  pay  his 
debt,  when  he  's  out  o'  jail." 

"Yes,"  said  Dilly,  joyously.  "An7  there's 
more  'n  that  you  can  do.  You  can  keep  him 
in  your  mind,  all  day  long,  an'  all  night  long, 
an'  your  sperit  '11  go  right  through  the  stone 
walls,  if  they  put  him  there,  an'  cheer  him  up. 


228  MEADOW-GRASS. 

He  won't  know  how,  but  so  it  '11  be,  dear,  so  it  '11 
be.  Folks  don't  know  why  they're  uplifted 
sometimes,  when  there  ain't  no  cause ;  but  / 
say  it  "s  other  folks's  love.  Now  you  come  in, 
dear,  an'  we  '11  make  the  bed  —  it 's  all  aired 
complete  —  an'  then  we  '11  go  to  sleep,  an'  see 
if  we  can't  dream  us  a  nice,  pleasant  dream,  — 
all  about  green  gardins,  an'  the  folks  we  love 
walkin"  in  the  midst  of  'em  ! " 


BANKRUPT. 

MISS  DORCAS  TRUE  stood  in  her  square 
front  entry,  saying  good-by  to  Phoebe 
Marsh.  The  entry  would  have  been  quite  dark 
from  its  time- stained  woodwork  and  green  paper, 
except  for  the  twilight  glimmer  swaying  and 
creeping  through  the  door  leading  into  the 
garden.  Out  there  were  the  yellow  of  core 
opsis  and  the  blue  of  larkspur,  melted  into  a 
dim  magnificence  of  color,  suffusing  all  the  air ; 
to  one  who  knew  what  common  glory  was 
a-blowing  and  a-growing  there  without,  the  bare 
seclusion  of  the  house  might  well  seem  invaded 
by  it,  like  a  heavenly  flood.  Phcebe,  too,  in  her 
pink  calico,  appeared  to  spread  abroad  the  rich 
ness  of  her  youth  and  bloom,  and  radiate  a 
certain  light  about  her  where  she  stood.  She 
was  tall,  her  proportions  were  ample,  and 
her  waist  very  trig.  She  had  the  shoulders 
and  arms  of  the  women  of  an  elder  time,  whom 
we  classify  vaguely  now  as  goddesses.  The 
Tiverton  voices  argued  that  she  would  have 
been  "  real  handsome  if  she  'd  had  any  sense 
about  doin'  her  hair;"  which  was  brought 


2  3o  MEADOW-GRASS. 

down  loosely  over  her  ears,  in  the  fashion  of 
her  Aunt  Phoebe's  miniature.  Miss  Dorcas  be 
side  her  looked  like  one  of  autumn's  brown, 
quiescent  stems  left  standing  by  the  way.  She 
was  firmly  built,  yet  all  her  lines  subdued  them 
selves  to  that  meagreness  which  ever  dwells 
afar  from  beauty.  The  deep  marks  of  hard  ex 
perience  had  been  graven  on  her  forehead,  and 
her  dark  eyes  burned  inwardly ;  the  tense,  con 
centrated  spark  of  pain  and  the  glowing  of 
happy  fervor  seemed  as  foreign  to  them  as  she 
herself  to  all  the  lighter  joys  and  hopes.  Her 
only  possibility  of  beauty  lay  in  an  abundance 
of  soft  dark  hair ;  but  even  that  had  been  re 
stricted  and  coiled  into  a  compact,  utilitarian 
compass.  She  had  laid  one  nervous  hand  on 
Phoebe's  arm,  and  she  grasped  the  arm  absently, 
from  time  to  time,  in  talking,  with  unconscious 
joy  in  its  rounded  warmth.  She  spoke  cau 
tiously,  so  that  her  voice  might  not  be  heard 
within. 

"  Then  you  come  over  to-morrow,  after  the 
close  of  service,  if  it 's  convenient.  You  can 
slip  right  into  the  kitchen,  just  as  usual.  Any 
news?  " 

Phoebe,  too,  lowered  her  voice,  but  the  full 
sweetness  of  its  quality  thrilled  out. 

"  Mary  Frances  Giles  is  going  to  be  married 
next  week.  I  've  been  down  to  see  her  things. 
She  's  real  pleased." 


BANKRUPT.  231 

"You  don't  suppose  they'll  ask  father  to 
marry  'em?"  Miss  Dorcas  spoke  quite  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  no,  they  can't !  It 's  a  real  wedding, 
you  know.  It 's  got  to  be  at  the  house." 

"  Yes,  of  course  it 's  got  to  !  I  knew  that 
myself,  but  I  couldn't  help  hoping.  Well,  good 
night.  You  come  Sunday." 

Phoebe  lifted  her  pink  skirts  about  her,  and 
5tepped,  rustling  and  stately,  down  the  garden 
walk.  Miss  Dorcas  drew  one  deep  breath  of 
the  outer  fragrance,  and  turned  back  into  the 
house.  A  thin  voice,  enfeebled  and  husky  from 
old  age,  rose  in  the  front  room,  as  she  entered  : 

"  Dorcas  !  Dorcas  !  you  had  a  caller?  " 

Her  father,  old  Parson  True,  lay  in  the  great 
bed  opposite  the  window.  A  thin  little  twig  of 
a  man,  he  was  still  animated,  at  times,  by  the 
power  of  a  strenuous  and  dauntless  spirit.  His 
hair,  brushed  straight  back  from  the  overtopping 
forehead,  had  grown  snowy  white,  and  the  eager, 
delicate  face  beneath  wore  a  strange  pathos  from 
the  very  fineness  of  its  nervously  netted  lines. 
Not  many  years  after  his  wife's  death,  the  par 
son  had  shown  some  wandering  of  the  wits ; 
yet  his  disability,  like  his  loss,  had  been  merci 
fully  veiled  from  him.  He  took  calmly  to  his 
bed,  perhaps  through  sheer  lack  of  interest  in  life, 
and  it  became  his  happy  invention  that  he  was 
"  not  feeling  well,"  from  one  day  to  another,  but 
that,  on  the  next  Sunday,  he  should  rise  and 


232  MEADOW-GRASS. 

preach.  He  seemed  like  an  unfortunate  and 
uncomplaining  child,  and  the  village  folk  took 
pride  in  him  as  something  all  their  own ;  a 
pride  enhanced  by  his  habit,  in  this  weak 
estate,  of  falling  back  into  the  homely  ways  of 
speech  he  had  used  long  ago  when  he  was  a 
boy  "  on  the  farm."  In  his  wife's  day,  he  had 
stood  in  the  pupit  above  them,  and  expounded 
scriptural  lore  in  academic  English ;  now  he 
lapsed  into  their  own  rude  phrasing,  and  seemed 
to  rest  content  in  a  tranquil  certainty  that  noth 
ing  could  be  better  than  Tiverton  ways  and 
Tiverton's  homely  speech. 

"Dorcas,"  he  repeated,  with  all  a  child's  de 
light  in  his  own  cleverness,  "  you  Ve  had  some 
body  here.  I  heard  ye  !  " 

Dorcas  folded  the  sheet  back  over  the  quilt, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  hair,  with  all  the  ten 
derness  of  the  strong  when  they  let  themselves 
brood  over  the  weak. 

"  Only  Phoebe,  on  her  way  home,"  she  an 
swered,  gently.  "  The  doctor  visited  her  school 
to-day.  She  thinks  he  may  drop  in  to  see  you 
to-night.  I  guess  he  give  her  to  understand  so." 

The  minister  chuckled. 

"Ain't  he  a  smart  one?"  he  rejoined. 
"  Smart  as  a  trap  !  Dorcas,  I  'ain't  finished 
my  sermon.  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  preach  an 
old  one.  You  lay  me  out  the  one  on  the  salt 
losin'  its  savor,  an'  I  '11  look  it  over." 


BANKRUPT.  233 

"  Yes,  father." 

The  same  demand  and  the  same  answer, 
varied  but  slightly,  had  been  exchanged  be 
tween  them  every  Saturday  night  for  years. 
Dorcas  replied  now  without  thinking.  Her 
mind  had  spread  its  wings  and  flown  out  into 
the  sweet  stillness  of  the  garden  and  the  world 
beyond ;  it  even  hastened  on  into  the  unknown 
ways  of  guesswork,  seeking  for  one  who  should 
be  coming.  She  strained  her  ears  to  hear  the 
beating  of  hoofs  and  the  rattle  of  wheels  across 
the  little  bridge.  The  dusk  sifted  in  about  the 
house,  faster  and  faster;  a  whippoorwill  cried 
from  the  woods.  So  she  sat  until  the  twilight 
had  vanished,  and  another  of  the  invisible 
genii  was  at  hand,  saying,  "  I  am  Night." 

"  Dorcas  !  "  called  the  parson  again.  He  had 
been  asleep,  and  seemed  now  to  be  holding 
himself  back  from  a  broken  dream.  "  Dorcas, 
has  your  mother  come  in  yet?  " 

"  No,  father." 

"  Well,  you  wake  me  up  when  you  see  her 
down  the  road  ;  an'  then  you  go  an'  carry  her 
a  shawl.  I  dunno  what  to  make  o'  that  cough  !  " 
His  voice  trailed  sleepily  off,  and  Dorcas  rose 
and  tiptoed  out  of  the  room.  She  felt  the 
blood  in  her  face ;  her  ears  thrilled  noisily. 
The  doctor's  wagon  had  crossed  the  bridge  ; 
now  it  was  whirling  swiftly  up  the  road.  She 
stationed  herself  in  the  entry,  to  lose  no  step 


234  MEADOW-GRASS. 

in  his  familiar  progress.  The  horse  came  lightly 
along,  beating  out  a  pleasant  tune  of  easy  haste. 
He  was  drawn  up  at  the  gate,  and  the  doctor 
threw  out  his  weight,  and  jumped  buoyantly  to 
the  ground.  There  was  the  brief  pause  of 
reaching  for  his  medicine-case,  and  then,  with 
that  firm  step  whose  rhythm  she  knew  so  well, 
he  was  walking  up  the  path.  Involuntarily,  as 
Dorcas  awaited  him,  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
heart  with  one  of  those  gestures  that  seem  so 
melodramatic  and  are  so  real ;  she  owned  to 
herself,  with  a  throb  of  appreciative  delight, 
how  the  sick  must  warm  at  his  coming.  This 
new  doctor  of  Tiverton  was  no  younger  than 
Dorcas  herself,  yet  with  his  erect  carriage  and 
merry  blue  eye  she  seemed  to  be  not  only  of 
another  temperament,  but  another  time.  It 
had  never  struck  him  that  they  were  contem 
poraries.  Once  he  had  told  Phoebe,  in  a  burst 
of  affection  and  pitying  praise,  that  he  should 
have  liked  Miss  Dorcas  for  a  maiden  aunt. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  said,  heartily,  one  foot 
on  the  sill.  "  How  's  the  patient?  " 

At  actual  sight  of  him,  her  tremor  vanished, 
and  she  answered  very  quietly,  — 

"  Father  's  asleep.  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
want  he  should  be  disturbed  ;  so  I  came  out." 

The  doctor  took  off  his  hat,  and  pushed  back 
his  thick,  unruly  hair. 

"  Yes,  that  was  right,"  he  said  absently,  and 


BANKRUPT.  235 

pinched  a  spray  of  southernwood  that  grew 
beside  the  door.  "How  has  he  seemed?" 

"  About  as  usual." 

"  You  Ve  kept  on  with  the  tonic?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That 's  good  !  Miss  Dorcas,  look  up  there. 
See  that  moon  !  See  that  wisp  of  an  old  blanket 
dragging  over  her  face  !  Do  you  mind  coming 
out  and  walking  up  and  down  the  road  while 
we  talk?  I  may  think  of  one  or  two  directions 
to  give  about  your  father." 

Dorcas  stepped  forward  with  the  light  obedi 
ence  given  to  happy  tasking.  She  paused  as 
quickly. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  can't.  Father 
might  wake  up.  I  never  leave  him  alone." 

"  Never  mind,  then  !  let 's  sit  right  down  here 
on  the  steps.  After  all,  perhaps  it's  pleasanter. 
What  a  garden  !  It 's  like  my  mother's.  I  could 
pick  out  every  leaf  in  the  dark,  by  the  smell. 
But  you  're  alone,  aren't  you?  I  'm  not  keeping 
you  from  any  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !   I  'm  all  alone,  except  father." 

"Yes.  The  fact  is,  I  went  into  your  school 
to-day,  and  the  teacher  said  she  was  coming 
here  to-night.  She  offered  to  bring  you  a  mes 
sage,  but  I  said  I  should  come  myself.  I  'm 
abominably  late.  I  couldn't  get  here  any 
earlier." 

"  Oh,  yes !     Phoebe  !     She  was  here  over  an 


236  MEADOW-GRASS. 

hour  ago.  Phoebe 's  a  real  comfort  to  me." 
She  was  seated  on  the  step  above  him,  and  it 
seemed  very  pleasant  to  her  to  hear  his  voice, 
without  encountering  also  the  challenge  of  his 
eyes. 

"  No,  is  she  though?  "  The  doctor  suddenly 
faced  round  upon  her.  "  Tell  me  about  it !  " 

Then,  quite  to  her  surprise,  Dorcas  found 
herself  talking  under  the  spell  of  an  interest  so 
eager  that  it  bore  her  on,  entirely  without  her 
own  guidance. 

"  Well,  you  see  there  's  a  good  many  things  I 
keep  from  father.  He  never 's  been  himself 
since  mother  died.  She  was  the  mainstay 
here.  But  he  thinks  the  church  prospers  just 
the  same,  and  I  never  've  told  him  the  attend 
ance  dropped  off  when  they  put  up  that  'Pis- 
copal  building  over  to  Sudleigh.  You  'ain't 
lived  here  long  enough  to  hear  much  about 
that,  but  it 's  been  a  real  trial  to  him.  The 
summer  boarders  built  it,  and  some  rich  body 
keeps  it  up ;  and  our  folks  think  it 's  complete 
to  go  over  there  and  worship,  and  get  up  and 
down,  and  say  their  prayers  out  loud." 

The  doctor  laughed  out. 

"  I  Ve  heard  about  it,"  said  he.  "  You  know 
what  Brad  Freeman  told  Uncle  Eli  Pike,  when 
they  went  in  to  see  how  the  service  was  man 
aged?  Somebody  found  the  places  in  the 
prayer-book  for  them,  and  Brad  was  quick- 


BANKRUPT.  237 

witted,  and  got  on  very  well ;  but  Eli  kept  drop 
ping  behind.  Brad  nudged  him.  '  Read  ! '  he 
said  out  loud.  '  Read  like  the  devil !  '  I  've 
heard  that  story  on  an  average  of  twice  a  day 
since  I  came  to  Tiverton.  I  'm  not  tired  of  it 
yet  !  " 

Miss  Dorcas,  too,  had  heard  it,  and  shrunk 
from  its  undisguised  profanity.  Now  she  laughed 
responsively. 

"  I  guess  they  do  have  queer  ways,"  she 
owned.  "Well,  I  never  let  father  know  any  of 
our  folks  go  over  there.  He  'd  be  terrible  tried. 
And  I  've  made  it  my  part  in  our  meeting  to  keep 
up  the  young  folks'  interest  as  much  as  I  can. 
I  've  been  careful  never  to  miss  my  Sunday- 
school  class.  They  're  all  girls,  nice  as  new 
pins,  every  one  of  'em  !  Phoebe  was  in  it  till 
a  little  while  ago,  but  now  she  comes  here  and 
sits  in  the  kitchen  while  I  "m  gone.  I  don't 
want  father  to  know  that,  for  I  hope  it  never  '11 
come  into  his  head  he 's  so  helpless ;  but  I 
should  be  worried  to  death  to  have  him  left 
alone.  So  Phoebe  sits  there  with  her  book, 
ready  to  spring  if  she  should  hear  anything  out 
o'  the  way." 

The  doctor  had  lapsed  into  his  absent  mood, 
but  now  he  roused  himself,  with  sudden  interest. 

"  That 's  very  good  of  her,  isn't  it?  "  he  said. 
"You  trust  her,  don't  you?  " 

"  Trust  Phoebe  !     Well,  I  guess  I  do  !     I  've 


238  MEADOW-GRASS. 

known  her  ever  since  she  went  to  Number  Five, 
and  now  she  's  keeping  the  school  herself.  She  's 
a  real  noble  girl !  " 

"  Tell  me  more  !  "  said  the  doctor,  warmly. 
"  I  want  to  hear  it  all.  You  're  so  new  to  me 
here  in  Tiverton  !  I  want  to  get  acquainted." 

Miss  Dorcas  suddenly  felt  as  if  she  had  been 
talking  a  great  deal,  and  an  overwhelming  shy 
ness  fell  upon  her. 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  she  hesitated. 
"  I  don't  know  's  anything  'd  happened  to  me 
for  years,  till  father  had  his  ill-turn  in  the 
spring,  and  we  called  you  in.  He  don't  seem 
to  realize  his  sickness  was  anything  much.  I  've 
told  the  neighbors  not  to  dwell  on  it  when 
they  're  with  him.  Phoebe  won't ;  she  's  got 
some  sense." 

"Has  she?"  said  the  doctor,  still  eagerly. 
"  I  'm  glad  of  that,  for  your  sake  !  "  He  rose 
to  go,  but  stood  a  moment  near  the  steps,  dally 
ing  with  a  reaching  branch  of  jessamine ;  it 
seemed  persuading  him  to  stay.  He  had  al 
ways  a  cheery  manner,  but  to-night  it  was 
brightened  by  a  dash  of  something  warm  and 
reckless.  He  had  the  air  of  one  awaiting  good 
news,  in  confidence  of  its  coming.  Dorcas  was 
alive  to  the  rapt  contagion,  and  her  own  blood 
thrilled.  She  felt  young. 

"  Well !  "  said  he,  "  well,  Miss  Dorcas  !  " 
He  took  a  step,  and  then  turned  back.  "Well, 


BANKRUPT.  239 

Miss  Dorcas,"  he  said  again,  with  an  embar 
rassed  laugh,  "  perhaps  you  'd  like  to  gather  in 
one  more  church-goer.  If  I  have  time  to 
morrow,  I  '11  drop  in  to  your  service,  and  then 
I  '11  come  round  here,  and  tell  your  father  I 
went." 

Dorcas  rose  impulsively.  She  could  have 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  him,  in  the  warmth 
of  her  gratitude. 

"  Oh,  if  you  would  !  Oh,  how  pleased  he  'd 
be  !" 

"  All  right  ! "  Now  he  turned  away  with 
decision.  "  Thank  you,  Miss  Dorcas,  for  stay 
ing  out.  It 's  a  beautiful  evening.  I  never 
knew  such  a  June.  Good-night  !  "  He  strode 
down  the  walk,  and  gave  a  quick  word  to  his 
horse,  who  responded  in  whinnying  welcome. 
An  instant's  delay,  another  word,  and  they  were 
gone. 

Dorcas  stood  listening  to  the  scatter  of  hoofs 
down  the  dusty  road  and  over  the  hollow  ledge. 
She  sank  back  on  the  sill,  and,  step  by  step, 
tried  to  retrace  the  lovely  arabesque  the  hour 
had  made.  At  last,  she  had  some  groping 
sense  of  the  full  beauty  of  living,  when  friend 
ship  says  to  its  mate,  "  Tell  me  about  yourself !  " 
and  the  frozen  fountain  wells  out,  every  drop 
cheered  and  warmed,  as  it  falls,  in  the  sunshine 
of  sympathy.  She  saw  in  him  that  perfection 
of  life  lying  in  strength,  which  he  undoubtedly 


242  MEADOW-GRASS. 

the  keeper  of  eternal  Sabbaths,  but  the  germi- 
nant  heat  at  the  heart  of  the  world.  If  she 
were  a  young  girl,  like  Phoebe,  there  would  be 
shame.  Even  a  thought  of  him  would  be  a 
stretching  forth  her  hand  to  touch  him,  say 
ing,  "  Look  at  me  !  I  am  here  !  "  but  for  her 
it  was  quite  different.  It  would  be  like  a  dream 
some  grandmother  dreamed  in  the  sun,  of  rosy 
youth  and  the  things  that  never  came  to  pass. 
No  one  would  be  harmed,  and  the  sleeper 
would  have  garnered  one  hour's  joy  before 
she  took  up  her  march  again  on  the  lonesomest 
road  of  all,  —  so  lonesome,  although  it  leads  us 
home  !  Thus  she  thought,  half  sleeping,  until 
the  night-dews  clung  in  drops  upon  her  hair ; 
then  she  went  in  to  bed,  still  wrapped  about 
with  the  drapery  of  her  dreams. 

Next  morning,  when  Dorcas  carried  in  her 
father's  breakfast,  she  walked  with  a  springing 
step,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  so  full  and  fresh  it 
made  her  newly  glad. 

"  It 's  a  nice  day,  father  !  There  '11  be  lots  of 
folks  out  to  meeting." 

"  That  's  a  good  girl  !  "  This  was  his  com 
mendation,  from  hour  to  hour ;  it  made  up  the 
litany  of  his  gratitude  for  what  she  had  been  to 
him.  "  But  I  dunno  's  I  feel  quite  up  to  preach- 
in'  to-day,  Dorcas  !  " 

"  That  '11  be  all  right,  father.  We  '11  get 
somebody." 


BANKRUPT.  243 

"  You  bring  me  out  my  sermon-box  after  break 
fast,  an'  I  '11  pick  out  one,"  said  he,  happily. 
"  Deacon  Tolman  can  read  it." 

But,  alas  !  Deacon  Tolman  had  been  dead 
this  many  a  year  ! 

A  little  later,  the  parson  sat  up  in  bed,  shuf 
fling  his  manuscript  about  with  nervous  hands, 
and  Dorcas,  in  the  kitchen,  stood  washing  her 
breakfast  dishes.  That  eager  interest  in  living 
still  possessed  her.  She  began  humming,  in 
a  timid  monotone.  Her  voice  had  the  clear 
ness  of  truth,  with  little  sweetness;  and  she 
was  too  conscious  of  its  inadequacy  to  use  it  in 
public,  save  under  the  compelling  force  of  con 
science.  Hitherto,  she  had  only  sung  in  Sun 
day-school,  moved,  as  in  everything,  by  the 
pathetic  desire  of  "doing  her  part;"  but  this 
morning  seemed  to  her  one  for  lifting  the  voice, 
though  not  in  Sunday  phrasing.  After  a  little 
thought,  she  began  thinly  and  sweetly,  — 

"  Early  one  morning,  just  as  the  sun  was  rising, 
I  heard  a  maid  sing  in  the  valley  below : 
'  O  don't  deceive  me !     O  never  leave  me  ! 
How  could  you  use  a  poor  maiden  so  ? '  " 

A  gruff  voice  from  the  doorway  broke  harshly 
in  upon  a  measure. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  Well !  well !  Tunin'  up  a 
larrady,  ain't  ye?" 

Dorcas    knew   who    it   was,   without  turning 


244  MEADOW-GRASS. 

round,  —  a  dark,  squat  woman,  broad  all  over  ; 
broad  in  the  hips,  the  waist,  the  face,  and 
stamped  with  the  race-mark  of  high  cheek 
bones.  Her  thick,  straight  black  hair  was  cut 
"  tin-basin  style ;  "  she  wore  men's  boots,  and 
her  petticoats  were  nearly  up  to  her  knees. 

"  Good  morning,  Nancy  !  "  called  Dorcas, 
blithely,  wringing  out  her  dishcloth.  "  Come 
right  in,  and  sit  down." 

Nance  Pete  (in  other  words,  Nancy  the  wife 
of  Pete,  whose  surname  was  unknown)  clumped 
into  the  room,  and  took  a  chair  by  the  hearth. 
She  drew  forth  a  short  black  pipe,  looked  into 
it  discontentedly,  and  then  sat  putting  her 
thumb  in  and  out  of  the  bowl. 

"  You  'ain't  got  a  mite  o'  terbacker  about  ye  ? 
Hey  what?  "  she  asked. 

Dorcas  had  many  a  time  been  shocked  at  the 
same  demand.  This  morning,  something  humor 
ous  about  it  struck  her,  and  she  laughed. 

"  You  know  I  haven't,  Nancy  Pete  !  Did 
you  mend  that  hole  in  your  skirt,  as  I  told 
you?" 

Nance  laboriously  drew  a  back  breadth  of  her 
coarse  plaid  skirt  round  to  the  front,  and  dis 
played  it,  without  a  word.  A  three-cornered 
tear  of  the  kind  known  as  a  barn-door  had  been 
treated  by  tying  a  white  string  well  outside  it, 
and  gathering  up  the  cloth,  like  a  bag.  Dorcas's 
sense  of  fitness  forbade  her  to  see  anything 


BANKRUPT.  245 

humorous  in  so  original  a  device.  She  stood 
before  the  woman  in  all  the  moral  excellence  of 
a  censor  fastidiously  clad. 

"O  Nancy  Pete!"  she  exclaimed.  "How 
could  you?  " 

Nance  put  her  cold  pipe  in  her  mouth,  and 
began  sucking  at  the  unresponsive  stem. 

"  You  'ain't  got  a  bite  of  anything  t'  eat,  have 
ye  ?  "  she  asked,  indifferently. 

Dorcas  went  to  the  pantry,  and  brought  forth 
pie,  doughnuts  and  cheese,  and  a  dish  of  cold 
beans.  The  coffee-pot  was  waiting  on  the 
stove.  One  would  have  said  the  visitor  had 
been  expected.  Nance  rose  and  tramped  over 
to  the  table.  But  Dorcas  stood  firmly  in  the 
way. 

"  No,  Nancy,  no  !  You  wait  a  minute  !  Are 
you  going  to  meeting  to-day?" 

"  I  'ain't  had  a  meal  o'  victuals  for  a  week  !  " 
remarked  Nance,  addressing  no  one  in  particular. 

"  Nancy,  are  you  going  to  meeting?  " 

"Whose  seat  be  I  goin'  to  set  in?"  inquired 
Nance,  rebelliously,  yet  with  a  certain  air  of 
capitulation. 

"  You  can  sit  in  mine.  Haven't  you  sat 
there  for  the  last  five  years?  Now,  Nancy, 
don't  hinder  me  !  " 

"  Plague  take  it,  then  !     I  '11  go  !  " 

At  this  expected  climax,  Dorcas  stood  aside, 
and  allowed  her  visitor  to  serve  herself  with 


246  MEADOW-GRASS. 

beans.  When  Nance's  first  hunger  had  been 
satisfied,  she  began  a  rambling  monologue,  of  an 
accustomed  sort  to  which  Dorcas  never  listened. 

"  I  went  down  to  peek  into  the  Poorhouse 
winders,  this  mornin'.  There  they  all  sut,  like 
rats  in  a  trap.  'Got  ye,  'ain't  they?'  says  I. 
Old  Sal  Flint  she  looked  up,  an'  if  there  'd  been 
a  butcher-knife  handy,  I  guess  she  'd  ha'  throwed 
it.  '  It 's  that  Injun  ! '  says  she  to  Mis'  Giles. 
'  Don't  you  take  no  notice  ! '  'I  dunno  's  I  'm 
an  Injun,'  says  I,  '  I  dunno  how  much  Injun  I 
be.  I  can't  look  so  fur  back  as  that.  I  dunno  's 
there 's  any  more  Injun  in  me  than  there  is 
devil  in  you ! '  I  says.  An'  then  the  overseer 
he  come  out,  an'  driv'  me  off.  '  You  won't  git 
me  in  there,'  says  I  to  him,  '  not  so  long  's  I  've 
got  my  teeth  to  chaw  sassafras,  an'  my  claws  to 
dig  me  a  holler  in  the  ground  ! '  But  when  I 
come  along,  he  passed  me  on  the  road,  an'  old 
Sal  Flint  sut  up  by  him  on  the  seat,  like  a  bump 
on  a  log.  I  guess  he  was  carryin'  her  over  to 
that  Pope-o'-Rome  meetin'  they  Ve  got  over  to 
Sudleigh." 

Dorcas  turned  about,  in  anxious  interest. 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  if  he  was  !  How  can  folks 
give  up  their  own  meeting  for  that?" 

Nance  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the  table. 

"  Want  to  see  all  kinds,  I  s'pose,"  she  said, 
slyly.  "  Guess  I  '11  try  it  myself,  another 
Sunday ! " 


BANKRUPT.  247 

"Anybody  to  home?"  came  a  very  high  and 
wheezy  voice  from  the  doorway.  Dorcas  knew 
that  also,  and  so  did  Nance  Pete. 

"It's  that  old  haddock 't  lives  up  on  the 
mountain,"  said  the  latter,  composedly,  search 
ing  in  her  pocket,  and  then  pulling  out  a  stray 
bit  of  tobacco  and  pressing  it  tenderly  into  her 
pipe. 

An  old  man,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  very  antique 
butternut  clothes,  stood  at  the  sill,  holding  for 
ward  a  bunch  of  pennyroyal.  He  was  weazened 
and  dry ;  his  cheeks  were  parchment  color,  and 
he  bore  the  look  of  an  active  yet  extreme  old 
age.  He  was  totally  deaf.  Dorcas  advanced 
toward  him,  taking  a  bright  five-cent  piece 
from  her  pocket.  She  held  it  out  to  him,  and 
he,  in  turn,  extended  the  pennyroyal ;  but 
before  taking  it,  she  went  through  a  solemn 
pantomime.  She  made  a  feint  of  accepting 
the  herb,  and  then  pointed  to  him  and  to  the 
road. 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  the  old  man,  irritably. 
"  Bless  ye  !  of  course  I  'm  goin'  to  meetin'.  I  '11 
set  by  myself,  though  !  Yes,  I  will  !  Las'  Sun 
day,  I  set  with  Jont  Marshall,  an'  every  time  I 
sung  a  note,  he  dug  into  me  with  his  elbow,  till 
I  thought  I  should  ha'  fell  out  the  pew-door. 
My  voice  is  jest  as  good  as  ever  'twas,  an' 
sixty-five  year  ago  come  spring,  I  begun  to  set 
in  the  seats." 


248  MEADOW-GRASS. 

The  coin  and  pennyroyal  changed  ownership, 
and  he  tottered  away,  chattering  to  himself  in 
his  senile  fashion. 

"Look  here,  you!"  he  shouted  back,  his 
hand  on  the  gate.  "  Heerd  anything  o'  that 
new  doctor  round  here  ?  Well,  he 's  been 
a-pokin'  into  my  ears,  an'  I  guess  he  'd  ha'  cured 
me,  if  anybody  could.  You  know  I  don't  hear 
so  well 's  I  used  to.  He  went  a-peekin'  an' 
a-pryin'  round  my  ears,  as  if  he  'd  found  a  hornet's 
nest.  I  dunno  what  he  see  there ;  I  know  he 
shook  his  head.  I  guess  we  shouldn't  ha'  got 
no  such  a  man  to  settle  down  here  if  he  wa'n't 
so  asthmy  he  couldn't  git  along  where  he  was. 
That 's  the  reason  he  come,  they  say.  He  's  a 
bright  one  !  " 

Dorcas  left  her  sweeping,  and  ran  out  after 
him.  For  the  moment,  she  forgot  his  hopeless 
durance  in  fleshly  walls. 

"Did  he  look  at  'em?"  she  cried.  "Did 
he?  Tell  me  what  he  said!" 

"Why,  of  course  I  don't  hear  no  better  yit ! " 
answered  old  Simeon,  testily,  turning  to  stump 
away,  "but  that  ain't  no  sign  I  sha'n't  !  He  's  a 
beauty  !  I  set  up  now,  when  he  goes  by,  so  's  I 
can  hear  him  when  he  rides  back.  I  put  a  quilt 
down  in  the  fore -yard,  an'  when  the  ground 
trimbles  a  mite,  I  git  up  to  see  if  it 's  his  hoss. 
Once  I  laid  there  till  'leven.  He  's  a  beauty, 
he  is  !  " 


BANKRUPT.  249 

He  went  quavering  down  the  road,  and 
Dorcas  ran  back  to  the  house,  elated  afresh. 
An  unregarded  old  man  could  give  him  the 
poor  treasure  of  his  affection,  quite  unasked. 
Why  should  not  she? 

Nance  was  just  taking  her  unceremonious 
leave.  Her  pockets  bulged  with  doughnuts, 
and  she  had  wrapped  half  a  pie  in  the  Sudleigh 
"Star,"  surreptitiously  filched  from  the  wood- 
box. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  '11  be  gittin'  along  towards 
meetin',"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  unconcern,  cal 
culated  to  allay  suspicion.  "  I  'm  in  hopes  to 
git  a  mite  o'  terbacker  out  o'  Hiram  Cole,  if 
he 's  settin'  lookin'  at  his  pigs,  where  he  is 
'most  every  Sunday.  I  '11  have  a  smoke  afore  I 
go  in." 

"Don't  you  be  late  !" 

"  I  'm  a-goin'  in  late,  or  not  at  all !  "  an 
swered  Nance,  contradictorily.  "  My  bunnit  ain't 
trimmed  on  the  congregation  side,  an'  I  want 
to  give  'em  a  chance  to  see  it  all  round.  I  'm 
a-goin'  up  the  aisle  complete  !  " 

Dorcas  finished  her  work,  and,  having  tidied 
her  father's  room,  sat  down  by  his  bedside  for 
the  simple  rites  that  made  their  Sabbath  holy. 
With  the  first  clanging  stroke  of  the  old  bell, 
not  half  a  mile  away,  they  fell  into  silence,  wait 
ing  reverently  through  the  necessary  pause  for 
allowing  the  congregation  to  become  seated. 


250  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Then  they  went  through  the  service  together, 
from  hymn  and  prayer  to  the  sermon.  The 
parson  had  his  manuscript  ready,  and  he  began 
reading  it,  in  the  pulpit-voice  of  his  prime.  At 
that  moment,  some  of  his  old  vigor  came  back 
to  him,  and  he  uttered  the  conventional  phrases 
of  his  church  with  conscious  power ;  though  so 
little  a  man,  he  had  always  a  sonorous  delivery. 
After  a  page  or  two,  his  hands  began  to  tremble, 
and  his  voice  sank. 

"  You  read  a  spell,  Dorcas,"  he  whispered,  in 
pathetic  apology.  "  I  '11  rest  me  a  minute." 
So  Dorcas  read,  and  he  listened.  Presently 
he  fell  asleep,  and  she  still  went  on,  speaking 
the  words  mechanically,  and  busy  with  her 
own  tumultuous  thoughts.  Amazement  pos 
sessed  her  that  the  world  could  be  so  full  of  joy 
to  which  she  had  long  been  deaf.  She  could 
hear  the  oriole  singing  in  the  elm  ;  his  song  was 
almost  articulate.  The  trees  waved  a  little,  in 
a  friendly  fashion,  through  the  open  windows ; 
friendly  in  the  unspoken  kinship  of  green  things 
to  our  thought,  yet  remote  in  their  own  seclu 
sion.  One  tall,  delicate  locust,  gowned  in 
summer's  finest  gear,  stirred  idly  at  the  top,  as 
if  through  an  inward  motion,  untroubled  by  the 
wind.  Dorcas's  mind  sought  out  the  doctor, 
listening  to  the  sermon  in  her  bare  little  church, 
and  she  felt  quite  content.  She  had  entered 
the  first  court  of  love,  where  a  spiritual  pos- 


BANKRUPT.  251 

session  is  enough,  and  asks  no  alms  of  bodily 
nearness.  When  she  came  to  the  end  of  the 
sermon,  her  hands  fell  in  her  lap,  and  she  gave 
herself  up  without  reserve  to  the  idle  delight  of 
satisfied  dreaming.  The  silence  pressed  upon 
her  father,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  with 
the  startled  look  of  one  who  comprehends  at 
once  the  requirements  of  time  and  place.  Then, 
in  all  solemnity,  he  put  forth  his  hands;  and 
Dorcas,  bending  her  head,  received  the  bene 
diction  for  the  congregation  he  would  never 
meet  again.  She  roused  herself  to  bring  in  his 
beef-tea,  and  at  the  moment  of  carrying  away 
the  tray,  a  step  sounded  on  the  walk.  She 
knew  who  it  was,  and  smiled  happily.  The 
lighter  foot  keeping  pace  beside  it,  she  did  not 
hear. 

"  Dorcas,"  said  her  father,  "  git  your  bunnit. 
It's  time  for  Sunday-school." 

"Yes,  father." 

The  expected  knock  came  at  the  door.  She 
went  forward,  tying  on  her  bonnet,  and  her 
cheeks  were  pink.  The  doctor  stood  on  the 
doorstone,  and  Phoebe  was  with  him.  He 
smiled  at  Dorcas,  and  put  out  his  hand.  This, 
according  to  Tiverton  customs,  was  a  warm 
demonstration  at  so  meaningless  a  moment ; 
it  seemed  a  part  of  his  happy  friendliness.  It 
was  Phoebe  who  spoke. 

"  I  '11  stay  outside  while  the  doctor  goes  in. 


252  MEADOW-GRASS. 

I  can  sit  down  here  on  the  step.  Your  father 
needn't  know  I  am  here  any  more  than  usual. 
I  told  the  doctor  not  to  talk,  coming  up  the 
walk." 

The  doctor  smiled  at  her.  Phoebe  looked 
like  a  rose  in  her  Sunday  white,  and  the  elder 
woman  felt  a  sudden  joy  in  her,  untouched  by 
envy  of  her  youth  and  bloom.  Phoebe  only 
seemed  a  part  of  the  beautiful  new  laws  to 
which  the  world  was  freshly  tuned.  Dorcas 
coveted  nothing  ;  she  envied  nobody.  She  her 
self  possessed  all,  in  usurping  her  one  rich 
kingdom. 

"  All  right,"  she  said.  "  The  doctor  can  step 
in  now,  and  see  father.  I  '11  hurry  back,  as  soon 
as  Sunday-school  is  over."  She  walked  away, 
glancing  happily  at  the  flowers  on  either  side  of 
the  garden-path.  She  wanted  to  touch  all  their 
leaves,  because,  last  night,  he  had  praised  them. 

Returning,  when  her  hour  was  over,  she 
walked  very  fast ;  her  heart  was  waking  into 
hunger,  and  she  feared  he  might  be  gone.  But 
he  was  there,  sitting  on  the  steps  beside  Phoebe, 
and  when  the  gate  swung  open,  they  did  not 
hear.  Phoebe's  eyes  were  dropped,  and  she 
was  poking  her  parasol  into  the  moss- encrusted 
path  ;  the  doctor  was  looking  into  her  face,  and 
speaking  quite  eagerly.  He  heard  Dorcas  first, 
and  sprang  up.  His  eyes  were  so  bright  and 
forceful  in  the  momentary  gleam  of  meeting 


BANKRUPT.  253 

hers,  that  she  looked  aside,  and  tried  to  rule 
her  quickening  breath. 

"  Miss  Dorcas,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  telling  this 
young  lady  she  mustn't  forget  to  eat  her  dinner 
at  school.  I  find  she  quite  ignores  it,  if  she 
has  sums  to  do,  or  blots  to  erase.  Why,  it 's 
shocking  !  " 

"  Of  course  she  must  eat  her  dinner  !  "  said 
Dorcas,  tenderly.  "  Why,  yes,  of  course  ! 
Phoebe,  do  as  he  tells  you.  He  knows." 

Phcebe  blushed  vividly. 

"  Does  he?  "  she  answered,  laughing.  "Well, 
I  '11  see.  Good-by,  Miss  Dorcas.  I  '11  come 
in  for  Friday  night  meeting,  if  I  don't  before. 
Good-by." 

"  I  '11  walk  along  with  you,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  If  you  '11  let  me,"  he  added,  humbly. 

Phcebe  turned  away  with  a  little  toss  of  her 
head,  and  he  turned,  too,  breaking  a  sprig  of 
southernwood.  Dorcas  was  glad  to  treasure  the 
last  sight  of  him  putting  to  his  lips  the  fragrant 
herb  she  had  bruised  for  his  sake.  It  seemed 
to  carry  over  into  daylight  the  joy  of  the  richer 
night ;  it  was  like  seeing  the  silken  thread  on 
which  her  pearls  were  strung.  She  called  to 
them  impetuously,  — 

"  Pick  all  the  flowers  you  want  to,  both  of 
you  !  "  Then  she  went  in,  but  she  said  aloud 
to  herself,  "  They  're  all  for  you  —  "  and  she 
whispered  his  name. 


254  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Dorcas,"  said  her  father,  "  the  doctor 's 
been  here  quite  a  spell.  He  says  there  was  a 
real  full  meetin'.  Even  Nancy  Pete,  Dorcas  ! 
I  feel  as  if  my  ministration  had  been  abun 
dantly  blessed." 

Then,  in  that  strangest  summer  in  Dorcas's 
life,  time  seemed  to  stand  still.  The  happiest 
of  all  experiences  had  befallen  her ;  not  a  suc 
cession  of  joys,  but  a  permanent  delight  in  one 
unchanging  mood.  The  evening  of  his  coming 
had  been  the  first  day;  and  the  evening  and 
the  morning  had  ever  since  been  the  same  in 
glory.  He  came  often,  sometimes  with  Phoebe, 
sometimes  alone ;  and,  being  one  of  the  men 
on  whom  women  especially  lean,  Dorcas  soon 
found  herself  telling  him  all  the  poor  trials  of 
her  colorless  life.  Nothing  was  too  small  for 
his  notice.  He  liked  her  homely  talk  of  the 
garden  and  the  church,  and  once  gave  up  an 
hour  to  spading  a  plot  where  she  wanted  a  new 
round  bed.  Dorcas  had  meant  to  put  lilies 
there,  but  she  remembered  he  loved  ladies'- 
delights  ;  so  she  gathered  them  all  together  from 
the  nooks  and  corners  of  the  garden,  and  set 
them  there,  a  sweet,  old-fashioned  company. 
"  That 's  for  thoughts  !  "  She  took  to  wearing 
flowers  now,  not  for  the  delight  of  him  who 
loved  them,  but  merely  as  a  part  of  her  secret 
litany  of  worship.  She  slept  deeply  at  night, 
and  woke  with  calm  content,  to  speak  one  name 


BANKRUPT.  255 

in  the  way  that  forms  a  prayer.  He  was  her 
one  possession ;  all  else  might  be  taken  away 
from  her,  but  the  feeling  inhabiting  her  heart 
must  live,  like  the  heart  itself. 

By  the  time  September  had  yellowed  all  the 
fields,  there  came  a  week  when  Phoebe's  aunt, 
down  at  the  Hollow,  was  known  to  be  very  ill ; 
so  Phoebe  no  longer  came  to  care  for  the  par 
son  through  the  Sunday-school  hour.  But  the 
doctor  appeared,  instead. 

"  I  'm  Phcebe,"  he  said,  laughing,  when  Dor 
cas  met  him  at  the  door.  "  She  can't  come  ; 
so  I  told  her  I  'd  take  her  place." 

These  were  the  little  familiar  deeds  which 
gilded  his  name  among  the  people.  Dorcas 
had  been  growing  used  to  them.  But  on  the 
next  Sunday  morning,  when  she  was  hurrying 
about  her  kitchen,  making  early  preparations  for 
the  cold  mid-day  meal,  a  daring  thought  assailed 
her.  Phoebe  might  come  to-day,  and  if  the  doc 
tor  also  dropped  in,  she  would  ask  them  both 
to  dinner.  There  was  no  reason  for  inviting 
him  alone  ;  besides,  it  was  happier  to  sit  by, 
leaving  him  to  some  one  else.  Then  the  two 
would  talk,  and  she,  with  no  responsibility, 
could  listen  and  look,  and  hug  her  secret  joy. 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  meetin'  to-day  !  "  came 
Nance  Pete's  voice  from  the  door.  She  stood 
there,  smoking  prosperously,  and  took  out  her 
pipe,  with  a  jaunty  motion,  at  the  words.  "  I 


256  MEADOW-GRASS. 

stopped  at  Kelup  Rivers',  on  the  way  over,  an' 
they  gi'n  me  a  good  breakfast,  an'  last  week, 
that  young  doctor  gi'n  me  a  whole  paper  o'  fine- 
cut.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  meetin'  !  I  'm  goin'  to 
se'  down  under  the  old  elm,  an'  have  a  real 
good  smoke." 

"  O  Nancy  !  "  Dorcas  had  no  dreams  so 
happy  that  such  an  avalanche  could  not  sweep 
them  aside.  "  Now,  do  !  Why,  you  don't 
want  me  to  think  you  go  to  church  just  because 
I  save  you  some  breakfast !  " 

Nance  turned  away,  and  put  up  her  chin  to 
watch  a  wreath  of  smoke. 

"  I  dunno  why  I  don't,"  said  she.  "  The 
world  's  nothin'  but  buy  an'  sell.  You  know  it, 
an'  I  know  it !'  Tain't  no  use  coverin'  on  't  up. 
You  heerd  the  news?  That  old  fool  of  a  Sim 
Barker  's  dead.  The  doctor  sut  up  all  night 
with  him,  an'  I  guess  now  he  's  layin'  on  him 
out.  I  wouldn't  ha'  done  it !  I  'd  ha'  wropped 
him  up  in  his  old  coat,  an'  glad  to  git  rid  on 
him  !  Well,  he  won't  cheat  ye  out  o'  no  more 
five-cent  pieces,  to  squander  in  terbacker.  You 
might  save  'em  up  for  me,  now  he  's  done  for  ! " 
Nance  went  stalking  away  to  the  gate,  flaunting 
a  visible  air  of  fine,  free  enjoyment,  the  product 
of  tobacco  and  a  bright  morning.  Dorcas 
watched  her,  annoyed,  and  yet  quite  helpless; 
she  was  outwitted,  and  she  knew  it.  Perhaps 
she  sorrowed  less  deeply  over  the  loss  to  her 


BANKRUPT.  257 

pensioner's  immortal  soul,  thus  taking  holi 
day  from  spiritual  discipline,  than  the  serious 
problem  involved  in  subtracting  one  from  the 
congregation.  Would  a  Sunday-school  picnic 
constitute  a  bribe  worth  mentioning?  Perhaps 
not.  so  far  as  Nance  was  concerned ;  but  her 
own  class  might  like  it,  and  on  that  young 
blood  she  depended,  to  vivify  the  church. 

A  bit  of  pink  came  flashing  along  the  country 
road.  It  was  Phoebe,  walking  very  fast. 

"  Dear  heart !  "  said  Dorcas,  aloud  to  herself, 
as  the  girl  came  hurriedly  up  the  path.  She 
was  no  longer  a  pretty  girl,  a  nice  girl,  as  the 
commendation  went.  Her  face  had  gained  an 
exalted  lift ;  she  was  beautiful.  She  took  Miss 
Dorcas  by  the  arms,  and  laughed  the  laugh  that 
knows  itself  in  the  right,  and  so  will  not  be  shy. 

"  Miss  Dorcas,"  she  said,  "  I  've  got  to  tell 
you  right  out,  or  I  can't  do  it  at  all.  What 
should  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  was  married  ?  — 
to  the  doctor?  " 

Dorcas  looked  at  her  as  if  she  did  not  hear. 

"  It 's  begun  to  get  round,"  went  on  Phoebe, 
"  and  I  wanted  to  give  you  the  word  myself. 
You  see,  auntie  was  sick,  and  when  he  was 
there  so  much,  she  grew  to  depend  on  him, 
'and  one  day,  when  we  'd  been  engaged  a  week, 
she  said,  why  shouldn't  we  be  married,  and  he 
come  right  to  the  house  to  live  ?  He  's  only 
boarding,  you  know.  And  nothing  to  do  but  it 


258  MEADOW-GRASS. 

must  be  done  right  off,  and  so  I  —  I  said  '  yes.1 
And  we  were  married,  Thursday.  Auntie  's  bet 
ter,  and  O  Miss  Dorcas  !  I  think  we  're  going 
to  have  a  real  good  time  together."  She  threw 
her  arms  about  Dorcas,  and  put  down  her  shin 
ing  brown  head  upon  them. 

Dorcas  tried  to  answer.  When  she  did  speak, 
her  voice  sounded  thin  and  faint,  and  she  won 
dered  confusedly  if  Phoebe  could  hear. 

"  I  didn't  know  —  "  she  said.  "  I  didn't 
know  —  " 

"  Why,  no,  of  course  not !  "  returned  Phoebe, 
brightly.  "  Nobody  did.  You  'd  have  been 
the  first,  but  I  didn't  want  the  engagement 
talked  about  till  auntie  was  better.  Oh,  I  be 
lieve  that 's  his  horse's  step  !  I  '11  run  out,  and 
ride  home  with  him.  You  come,  too,  Miss 
Dorcas,  and  just  say  a  word  !  " 

Dorcas  loosened  the  girl's  arms  about  her, 
and,  bending  to  the  bright  head,  kissed  it  twice. 
Phoebe,  grown  careless  in  her  joy,  ran  down  the 
walk  to  stop  the  approaching  wagon  ;  and  when 
she  looked  round,  Dorcas  had  shut  the  door 
and  gone  in.  She  waited  a  moment  for  her  to 
reappear,  and  then,  remembering  the  doctor 
had  had  no  breakfast,  she  stepped  into  the 
wagon,  and  they  drove  happily  away. 

Dorcas  went  to  her  bedroom,  touching  the 
walls,  on  the  way,  with  her  groping  hands.  She 
sat  down  on  the  floor  there,  and  rested  her 


BANKRUPT.  259 

head  against  a  chair.  Once  only  did  she  rouse 
herself,  and  that  was  to  go  into  the  kitchen  and 
set  away  the  great  bowl  of  blanc-mange  she  had 
been  making  for  dinner.  She  had  not  strained 
it  all,  and  the  sea-weed  was  drying  on  the  sieve. 
Then  she  went  back  into  the  bedroom,  and 
pulled  down  the  green  slat  curtains  with  a  shak 
ing  hand.  Twice  her  father  called  her  to  bring 
his  sermons,  but  she  only  answered,  "  Yes, 
father  !  "  in  dull  acquiescence,  and  did  not  move. 
She  was  benumbed,  sunken  in  a  gulf  of  shame, 
too  faint  and  cold  to  save  herself  by  struggling. 
Her  poor  innocent  little  fictions  made  them 
selves  into  lurid  writings  on  her  brain.  She 
had  called  him  hers  while  another  woman  held 
his  vows,  and  she  was  degraded.  Her  soul  was 
wrecked  as  truly  as  if  the  whole  world  knew  it, 
and  could  cry  to  her  "Shame  ! "  and  "  Shame  !  " 
The  church-bells  clanged  out  their  judgment 
of  her.  A  new  thought  awakened  her  to  a  new 
despair.  She  was  not  fit  to  teach  in  Sunday- 
school  any  more.  Her  girls,  her  innocent,  sweet 
girls  !  There  was  contagion  in  her  very  breath. 
They  must  be  saved  from  it ;  else  when  they 
were  old  women  like  her,  some  sudden  vice  of 
tainted  blood  might  rise  up  in  them,  no  one 
would  know  why,  and  breed  disease  and  shame. 
She  started  to  her  feet.  Her  knees  trembling 
under  her,  she  ran  out  of  the  house,  and  hid 
herself  behind  the  great  lilac-bush  by  the  gate. 


260  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Deacon  Caleb  Rivers  came  jogging  past,  late  for 
church,  but  driving  none  the  less  moderately. 
His  placid-faced  wife  sat  beside  him ;  and  Dor 
cas,  stepping  out  to  stop  them,  wondered,  with 
a  wild  pang  of  perplexity  over  the  things  of 
this  world,  if  'Mandy  Rivers  had  ever  known  the 
feeling  of  death  in  the  soul.  Caleb  pulled  up. 

"  I  can't  come  to  Sunday-school,  to-day," 
called  Dorcas,  stridently.  "You  tell  them  to 
give  Phoebe  my  class.  And  ask  her  if  she  '11 
keep  it.  I  sha'n't  teach  any  more." 

"  Ain't  your  father  so  well  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Rivers,  sympathetically,  bending  forward  and 
smoothing  her  mitts.  Dorcas  caught  at  the 
reason. 

"  I  sha'n't  leave  him  any  more,"  she  said. 
"You  tell  'em  so.  You  fix  it." 

Caleb  drove  on,  and  she  went  back  into  the 
house,  shrinking  under  the  brightness  of  the  air 
which  seemed  to  quiver  so  before  her  eyes. 
She  went  into  her  father's  room,  where  he  was 
awake  and  wondering. 

"Seems  to  me  I  heard  the  bells,"  he  said,  in 
his  gentle  fashion.  "  Or  have  we  had  the 
hymns,  an'  got  to  the  sermon?" 

Dorcas  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside. 

"  Father,"  she  began,  with  difficulty,  her  cheek 
laid  on  the  bedclothes  beside  his  hand,  "there 
was  a  sermon  about  women  that  are  lost.  What 
was  that?" 


BANKRUPT.  261 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  the  parson,  rousing  to 
an  active  joy  in  his  work.  " '  Neither  do  I 
condemn  thee  ! '  That  was  it.  You  git  it, 
Dorcas  !  We  must  remember  such  poor  crea- 
tur's ;  though,  Lord  be  praised !  there  ain't 
many  round  here.  We  must  remember  an'  pray 
for  "em." 

But  Dorcas  did  not  rise. 

"Is  there  any  hope  for  them,  father?"  she 
asked,  her  voice  muffled.  "  Can  they  be 
saved?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  the  poor  creatur' 
that  come  here  an'  asked  that  very  question 
because  she  heard  I  said  the  Lord  was  pitiful  ? 
Her  baby  was  born  out  in  the  medder,  an'  died 
the  next  day ;  an'  she  got  up  out  of  her  sick 
bed  at  the  Poorhouse,  an'  come  totterin'  up 
here,  to  ask  if  there  was  any  use  in  her  sayin', 
'  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner  ! '  An'  your 
mother  took  her  in,  an'  laid  her  down  on  this 
very  bed,  an'  she  died  here.  An'  your  mother 
hil'  her  in  her  arms  when  she  died.  You  ask 
her  if  she  didn't !  "  The  effort  of  continuous 
talking  wearied  him,  and  presently  he  dozed  off. 
Once  he  woke,  and  Dorcas  was  still  on  her 
knees,  her  head  abased.  "  Dorcas  !  "  he  said, 
and  she  answered,  "Yes,  father  !  "  without  rais 
ing  it ;  and  he  slept  again.  The  bell  struck,  for 
the  end  of  service.  The  parson  was  awake. 
He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  it  trembled 


262  MEADOW-GRASS. 

a  moment  and  then  fell  on  his  daughter's  lowly 
head. 

"The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  — " 
the  parson  said,  and  went  clearly  on  to  the 
solemn  close. 

"  Father,"  said  Dorcas.  "  Father  !  "  She 
seemed  to  be  crying  to  One  afar.  "  Say  the 
other  verse,  too.  What  He  told  the  woman." 

His  hand  still  on  her  head,  the  parson  re 
peated,  with  a  wistful  tenderness  stretching  back 
over  the  past,  — 

" '  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee ;  go,  and  sin 
no  more.' " 


NANCY    BOYD'S   LAST   SERMON. 

TT  was  the  lonesome  time  of  the  year :  not 
•*•  November,  that  accomplishment  of  a  gra 
cious  death,  but  the  moment  before  the  con 
scious  spring,  when  watercourses  have  not  yet 
stirred  in  awakening,  and  buds  are  only  dreamed 
of  by  trees  still  asleep  but  for  the  sweet  trouble 
within  their  wood ;  when  the  air  finds  as  yet 
no  response  to  the  thrill  beginning  to  creep 
where  roots  lie  blind  in  the  dark ;  when  life  is 
at  the  one  dull,  flat  instant  before  culmination 
and  movement.  I  had  gone  down  post-haste 
to  my  well-beloved  Tiverton,  in  response  to  the 
news  sent  me  by  a  dear  countrywoman,  that 
Nancy  Boyd,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  my 
long  absence  in  Europe,  was  dying  of  "gallop 
ing  consumption."  Nancy  wanted  to  bid  me 
good-by.  Hiram  Cole  met  me,  lean-jawed, 
dust-colored,  wrinkled  as  of  old,  with  the  over 
alls  necessitated  by  his  "  sleddin'  "  at  least  four 
inches  too  short.  Not  the  Pyramids  themselves 
were  such  potent  evidence  that  time  may  stand 
still,  withal,  as  this  lank,  stooping  figure,  line  for 
line  exactly  what  it  had  been  five  years  before. 


264  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Hiram  helped  me  into  the  pung,  took  his  place 
beside  me,  and  threw  a  conversational  "  huddup  " 
to  the  rakish-looking  sorrel  colt.  We  dashed 
sluing  away  down  the  country  road,  and  then  I 
turned  to  look  at  my  old  friend.  He  was  stead 
fastly  gazing  at  the  landscape  ahead,  the  while 
he  passed  one  wiry  hand  over  his  face,  to 
smooth  out  its  broadening  smile.  He  was  glad 
to  see  me,  but  his  private  code  of  decorum 
forbade  the  betrayal  of  any  such  "shaller" 
emotion. 

"Well,  Hiram,"  I  began,  "Tiverton  looks 
exactly  the  same,  doesn't  it  ?  And  poor  Nancy, 
how  is  she?  " 

"  Nancy  's  pretty  low,"  said  Hiram,  drawing 
his  mitten  over  the  hand  that  had  been  used  to 
iron  out  his  smile,  and  giving  critical  attention 
to  the  colt's  off  hind-leg.  "  She  hiP  her  own  all 
winter,  but  now,  come  spring,  she  's  breakin'  up 
mighty  fast.  They  don't  cal'late  she  '11  live 
more  'n  a  day  or  two." 

"  Her  poor  husband  !  How  will  he  get  along 
without  her  !  " 

Hiram  turned  upon  me  with  vehemence. 

"Why,  don't  you  know?"  said  he.  "'Ain't 
nobody  told  ye?  She  'ain't  got  no  husband." 

"  What  ?     Is  the  Cap'n  dead  ?  " 

"  Dead  ?  Bless  ye,  he 's  divorced  from 
Nancy,  an'  married  another  woman,  two  year 
ago  come  this  May  !  " 


NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON.     265 

I  was  amazed,  and  Hiram  looked  at  me  with 
the  undisguised  triumph  of  one  who  has  news  to 
sell,  be  it  good  or  bad. 

"  But  Nancy  has  written  me  !  "  I  said.  "She 
told  me  the  neighborhood  gossip;  why  didn't 
she  tell  me  that?" 

"Pride,  I  s'pose,  pride,"  said  Hiram.  "You 
can't  be  sure  how  misery  '11  strike  folks.  It 's 
like  a  September  gale  ;  the  best  o'  barns  '11  blow 
down,  an'  some  rickety  shanty  '11  stan'  the 
strain.  But  there  !  Nancy  's  had  more  to  bear 
from  the  way  she  took  her  troubles  than  from 
the  troubles  themselves.  Ye  see,  'twas  this 
way.  Cap'n  Jim  had  his  own  reasons  for  wantin' 
to  git  rid  of  her,  an'  I  guess  there  was  a  time 
when  he  treated  her  pretty  bad.  I  guess  he  as 
good  's  turned  her  out  o'  house  an'  home,  an' 
when  he  sued  for  divorce  for  desertion,  she 
never  said  a  word  ;  an'  he  got  it,  an'  up  an' 
married,  as  soon  as  the  law  'd  allow.  Nancy 
never  opened  her  head,  all  through  it.  She  jest 
settled  down,  with  a  bed  an'  a  chair  or  two,  in 
that  little  house  she  owned  down  by  Wilier 
Brook,  an'  took  in  tailorin'  an'  menclin'.  One 
spell,  she  bound  shoes.  The  whole  town  was 
with  her  till  she  begun  carryin'  on  like  a  crazed 
creatur',  as  she  did  arterwards." 

My  heart  sank.  Poor  Nancy !  if  she  had 
really  incurred  the  public  scorn,  it  must  have 
been  through  dire  extremity. 


266  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  Ye  see,"  Hiram  continued,  "  folks  were 
sort  o'  tried  with  her  from  the  beginnin'.  You 
know  what  a  good  outfit  she  had  from  her 
mother's  side,  —  bureaus,  an'  beddin',  an'  every 
thing  complete  ?  Well,  she  left  it  all  right  there 
in  the  house,  for  Jim  to  use,  an'  when  he  brought 
his  new  woman  home,  there  the  things  set  jest 
the  same,  an'  he  never  said  a  word.  I  don't 
deny  he  ought  to  done  different,  but  then,  if 
Nancy  wouldn't  look  out  for  her  own  interests, 
you  can't  blame  him  so  much,  now  can  ye? 
But  the  capsheaf  come  about  a  year  ago,  when 
Nancy  had  a  smart  little  sum  o'  money  left 
her,  —  nigh  onto  a  hunderd  dollars.  Jim  he  'd 
got  into  debt,  an'  his  oxen  died,  an'  one  thing 
an'  another,  he  was  all  wore  out,  an'  had  rheu 
matic  fever ;  an'  if  you  '11  b'lieve  it,  Nancy  she 
went  over  an'  done  the  work,  an*  let  his  wife 
nuss  him.  She  wouldn't  step  foot  into  the 
bedroom,  they  said;  she  never  see  Jim  once, 
but  there  she  was,  slavin'  over  the  wash-tub 
and  ironin'-board, — an'  as  for  that  money,  I 
guess  it  went  for  doctor's  stuff  an'  what  all, 
for  Jim  bought  a  new  yoke  of  oxen  in  the 
spring." 

"  But  the  man  !  the  other  wife  !  how  could 
they?" 

"  Oh,  Jim's  wife  's  a  pretty  tough-hided  crea- 
tur',  an'  as  for  him,  I  al'ays  thought  the  way 
Nancy  behaved  took  him  kind  o'  by  surprise, 


NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON      267 

an'  he  had  to  give  her  her  head,  an'  let  her  act 
her  pleasure.  But  it  made  a  sight  o'  town 
talk.  Some  say  Nancy  ain't  quite  bright  to 
carry  on  so,  an'  the  women- folks  seem  to  think 
she  's  a  good  deal  to  blame,  one  way  or  another. 
Anyhow,  she  's  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe.  Here 
we  be,  an'  there  's  Hannah  at  the  fore-room 
winder.  You  won't  think  o'  goin"  ovrer  to 
Nancy's  till  arter  supper,  will  ye?" 

When  I  sat  alone  beside  Nancy's  bed,  that 
night,  I  had  several  sides  of  her  sad  story  in 
mind,  but  none  of  them  lessened  the  dreari 
ness  of  the  tragedy.  Before  my  brief  acquaint 
ance  with  her,  Nancy  was  widely  known  as  a 
travelling-preacher,  one  who  had  "  the  power." 
She  must  have  been  a  strangely  attractive 
creature,  in  those  early  days,  alert,  intense, 
gifted  with  such  a  magnetic  reaching  into  an 
other  life  that  it  might  well  set  her  aside  from 
the  commoner  phases  of  a  common  day,  and 
crowned,  as  with  flame,  by  an  unceasing  aspira 
tion  for  the  highest.  At  thirty,  she  married  a 
dashing  sailor,  marked  by  the  sea,  even  to  the 
rings  in  his  ears ;  and  when  I  knew  them,  they 
were  solidly  comfortable  and  happy,  in  a  way 
very  reassuring  to  one  who  could  understand 
Nancy's  temperament ;  for  she  was  one  of  those 
who,  at  every  step,  are  flung  aside  from  the 
world's  sharp  corners,  bruised  and  bleeding. 


268  MEADOW-GRASS. 

As  to  the  storm  and  shipwreck  of  her  life,  I 
learned  no  particulars  essentially  new.  Evi 
dently  her  husband  had  suddenly  run  amuck, 
either  from  the  monotony  of  his  inland  days, 
or  from  the  strange  passion  he  had  conceived 
for  a  woman  who  was  Nancy's  opposite. 

That  night,  I  sat  in  the  poor,  bare  little 
room,  beside  the  billowing  feather-bed  where 
Nancy  lay  propped  upon  pillows,  and  gazing 
with  bright,  glad  eyes  into  my  face,  one  thin 
little  hand  clutching  mine  with  the  grasp  of  a 
soul  who  holds  desperately  to  life.  And  yet 
Nancy  was  not  clinging  to  life  itself;  she  only 
seemed  to  be,  because  she  clung  to  love. 

"  I  'm  proper  glad  to  see  ye,"  she  kept  say 
ing,  "  proper  glad." 

We  were  quite  alone.  The  fire  burned 
cheerily  in  the  kitchen  stove,  and  a  cheap 
little  clock  over  the  mantel  tickled  unmerci 
fully  fast ;  it  seemed  in  haste  for  Nancy  to  be 
gone.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  lest  the  thrifty 
window-plants  should  be  frostbitten,  and  several 
tumblers  of  jelly  on  the  oilcloth-covered  table 
bore  witness  that  the  neighbors  had  put  aside 
their  moral  scruples  and  their  social  delicacy, 
and  were  giving  of  their  best,  albeit  to  one 
whose  ways  were  not  their  ways.  But  Nancy 
herself  was  the  centre  and  light  of  the  room,  — 
so  frail,  so  clean,  with  her  plain  nightcap  and 
coarse  white  nightgown,  and  the  small  checked 


NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON.     269 

shawl  folded  primly  over  her  shoulders.  Thin 
as  she  was,  she  looked  scarcely  older  than  when 
I  had  seen  her,  five  years  before ;  yet  since 
then  she  had  walked  through  a  blacker  valley 
than  the  one  before  her. 

"  Now  don't  you  git  all  nerved  up  when  I 
cough,"  she  said,  lying  back  exhausted  after  a 
paroxysm.  "  I  've  got  used  to  it ;  it  don't 
trouble  me  no  more  'n  a  mosquiter.  I  want  to 
have  a  real  good  night  now,  talkin'  over  old 
times." 

"  You  must  try  to  sleep,"  I  said.  "  The  doc 
tor  will  blame  me,  if  I  let  you  talk." 

"  No,  he  won't,"  said  Nancy,  shrewdly. 
"  He  knows  I  'ain't  got  much  time  afore  me, 
an'  I  guess  he  wouldn't  deny  me  the  good  on  't. 
That 's  why  I  sent  for  ye,  dear ;  I  'ain't  had 
anybody  I  could  speak  out  to  in  five  year,  an' 
I  wanted  to  speak  out,  afore  I  died.  Do  you 
remember  how  you  used  to  come  over  an'  eat 
cold  b'iled  dish  for  supper,  that  last  summer 
you  was  down  here?" 

"  Oh,  don't  I,  Nancy  !  there  never  was  any 
thing  like  it.  Such  cold  potatoes  —  " 

"B'iled  in  the  pot-liquor  !  "  she  whispered,  a 
knowing  gleam  in  her  blue  eyes.  "  That 's  the 
way ;  on'y  everybody  don't  know.  An'  do  you 
remember  the  year  we  had  greens  way  into  the 
fall,  an'  I  wouldn't  tell  you  what  they  was? 
Well,  I  will,  now ;  there  was  chickweed,  an' 


270  MEADOW-GRASS. 

pusley,  an'  mustard,  an'  Aaron's-rod,  an'  I  dunno 
what  all." 

"  Not  Aaron's-rod,  Nancy !  it  never  would 
have  been  so  good  !  " 

"  It 's  truth  an'  fact !  I  b'iled  Aaron's-rod, 
an'  you  eat  it.  That  was  the  year  Mis'  Blais- 
dell  was  mad  because  you  had  so  many  meals 
over  to  my  house,  an'  said  it  was  the  last  time 
she  'd  take  summer  boarders  an'  have  the  neigh 
bors  feed  "em." 

"  They  were  good  old  days,  Nancy  !  " 

"  I  guess  they  were  !  yes,  indeed,  I  guess  so  ! 
Now,  dear,  I  s'pose  you  've  heard  what  I  've 
been  through,  sence  you  went  away?" 

I  put  the  thin  hand  to  my  cheek. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  have  heard." 

"  Well,  now,  I  want  to  tell  you  the  way  it 
'pears  to  me.  You  '11  hear  the  neighbors'  side, 
an'  arter  I  'm  gone,  they  '11  tell  you  I  was  under- 
witted  or  bold.  They've  been  proper  good  to 
me  sence  I  Ve  been  sick,  but  law  !  what  do 
they  know  about  it,  goin'  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock, 
an'  gittin'  up  to  feed  the  chickens  an'  ride  to 
meetin'  with  their  husbands?  No  more 'n  the 
dead  !  An'  so  I  want  to  tell  ye  my  story,  my 
self.  Now,  don't  you  mind  my  coughin',  dear  ! 
It  don't  hurt,  to  speak  of,  an'  I  feel  better 
arter  it. 

"Well,  I  dunno  where  to  begin.  The  long 
an'  short  of  it  was,  dear,  James  he  got  kind  o' 


NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON.     271 

uneasy  on  land,  an"  then  he  was  tried  with  me, 
an'  then  he  told  me,  one  night,  when  he  spoke 
out,  that  he  didn't  care  about  me  as  he  used  to, 
an'  he  never  should,  an'  we  couldn't  live  no 
longer  under  the  same  roof.  He  was  goin'  off 
the  next  day  to  sea,  or  to  the  devil,  he  said,  so 
he  needn't  go  crazy  seein'  Mary  Ann  Worthen's 
face  lookin'  at  him  all  the  time.  It  ain't  any 
use  tryin'  to  tell  how  I  felt.  Some  troubles 
ain't  no  more  'n  a  dull  pain,  an'  some  are  like 
cuts  an'  gashes.  You  can  feel  your  heart  drop, 
drop,  like  water  off  the  eaves.  Mine  dropped 
for  a  good  while  arter  that.  Well,  you  see  I  'd 
been  through  the  fust  stages  of  it.  I  'd  been 
eat  up  by  jealousy,  an'  I  'd  slaved  like  a  dog  to 
git  him  back ;  but  now  it  had  got  beyond  such 
folderol.  He  was  in  terrible  trouble,  an'  I  'd 
got  to  git  him  out.  An'  I  guess  'twas  then 
that  I  begun  to  feel  as  if  I  was  his  mother, 
instid  of  his  wife.  'Jim,'  says  I,  (somehow  I 
have  to  say  'James,'  now  we're  separated!) 
'  don't  you  fret.  I  '11  go  off  an'  leave  ye,  an' 
you  can  get  clear  o'  me  accordin'  to  law,  if  you 
want  to.  I  'm  sure  you  can.  I  slm'n't  care.' 
He  turned  an'  looked  at  me,  as  if  I  was  crazed 
or  he  was  himself.  '  You  won't  care  ?  '  he  says. 
'No,'  says  I,  'I  sha'n't  care.'  I  said  it  real 
easy,  for  'twas  true.  Somehow,  I  'd  got  beyond 
carin'.  My  heart  dropped  blood,  but  I  couldn't 
bear  to  have  him  in  trouble.  '  They  al'ays  told 


2  72  MEADOW-GRASS. 

me  I  was  cut  out  for  an  old  maid/  I  says,  '  an' 
I  guess  I  be.  Housekeepin'  's  a  chore,  any 
way.  You  let  all  the  stuff  set  right  here  jest  as 
we  've  had  it,  an'  ask  Cap'n  Fuller  to  come  an' 
bring  his  chist ;  an'  I  '11  settle  down  in  the 
Wilier  Brook  house  an'  make  button-holes. 
It 's  real  pretty  work.'  You  see,  the  reason  I 
was  so  high  for  it  was  't  I  knew  if  he  went  to 
sea,  he  'd  git  in  with  a  swearin',  drinkin1  set,  as 
he  did  afore,  an'  in  them  days  such  carryin's-on 
were  dretful  to  me.  If  I  'd  known  he  'd  marry, 
I  dunno  what  course  I  should  ha'  took ;  for 
nothin'  could  ha'  made  that  seem  right  to  me, 
arter  all  had  come  and  gone.  But  I  jest 
thought  how  James  was  a  dretful  handy  man 
about  the  house,  an'  I  knew  he  set  by  Cap'n 
Fuller.  The  Cap'n  'ain't  no  real  home,  you 
know,  an'  I  thought  they  'd  admire  to  bach  it 
together." 

"  Did  you  ever  wonder  whether  you  had 
done  right?  Did  you  ever  think  it  would 
have  been  better  for  him  to  keep  his  promises 
to  you?  For  him  to  be  unhappy?  " 

A  shade  of  trouble  crossed  her  face. 

"  I  guess  I  did  !  "  she  owned.  "  At  fust,  I 
was  so  anxious  to  git  out  o'  his  way,  I  never 
thought  of  anything  else ;  but  when  I  got 
settled  down  here,  an'  had  all  my  time  for 
spec'latin'  on  things,  I  was  a  good  deal  put  to  't 
whether  I  'd  done  the  best  anybody  could.  But 


NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON.     273 

I  didn't  reason  much,  in  them  days ;  I  jest  felt. 
All  was,  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  James  tied  to 
me  when  he  'd  got  so  's  to  hate  me.  Well,  then 
he  married  —  " 

"  Was  she  a  good  woman?  " 

"  Good  enough,  yes ;  a  leetle  mite  coarse 
grained,  but  well-meanin'  all  through.  Well, 
now,  you  know  the  neighbors  blamed  me  for 
lettin'  her  have  my  things.  Why,  bless  you,  I 
didn't  need  'em  !  An'  Jim  had  used  'em  so 
many  years,  he  'd  ha'  missed  'em  if  they  'd  been 
took  away.  Then  he  never  was  forehanded,  an' 
how  could  he  ha'  furnished  a  house  all  over 
ag'in,  I  'd  like  to  know?  The  neighbors  never 
understood.  The  amount  of  it  was,  they  never 
was  put  in  jest  such  a  place,  any  of  'em." 

"  O  Nancy,  Nancy  !  "  I  said,  "  you  cared  for 
just  one  thing,  and  it  was  gone.  You  didn't 
care  for  the  tables  and  chairs  that  were  left 
behind  !  " 

Two  tears  came,  and  dimmed  her  bright  blue 
eyes.  Her  firm,  delicate  mouth  quivered. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  see  how  'twas.  I 
knew  you  would.  Well,  arter  he  was  married, 
there  was  a  spell  when  'twas  pretty  tough. 
Sometimes  I  couldn't  hardly  help  goin'  over 
there  by  night  an'  peekin'  into  the  winder,  an' 
seein'  how  they  got  along.  I  went  jest  twice. 
The  fust  time  was  late  in  the  fall,  an'  she  was 
preservin'  pears  by  lamplight.  I  looked  into  the 
18 


274  MEADOW-GRASS. 

kitchin  winder  jest  as  she  was  bendin'  over 
the  stove,  tryin'  the  syrup,  an'  he  was  holdin' 
the  light  for  her  to  see.  I  dunno  what  she 
said,  but  'twas  suthin'  that  made  'em  both 
laugh  out,  an'  then  they  turned  an'  looked  at 
one  another,  proper  pleased.  I  dunno  why, 
but  it  took  right  hold  o'  me,  an'  I  started 
runnin'.  an'  I  never  stopped  till  I  got  in  here 
an'  onto  my  own  bed.  I  thought  'twould  ha' 
been  massiful  if  death  had  took  me  that  night, 
but  I  'm  glad  it  didn't,  dear,  I  'm  glad  it  didn't ! 
I  shouldn't  ha'  seen  ye,  if  it  had,  an'  there  's  a 
good  many  things  I  shouldn't  ha'  had  time  to 
study  out.  You  jest  put  a  mite  o'  cayenne 
pepper  in  that  cup,  an'  turn  some  hot  water  on 
it.  It  kind  o'  warms  me  up." 

After  a  moment's  rest,  she  began  again. 

"  The  next  time  I  peeked  was  the  last,  for 
that  night  they  'd  had  some  words,  an'  they 
both  set  up  straight  as  a  mack'rel,  an'  wouldn't 
speak  to  one  another.  That  hurt  me  most  of 
anything.  I  never  Ve  got  over  the  feelin'  that 
I  was  James's  mother,  an'  that  night  I  felt  sort 
o'  bruised  all  through,  as  if  some  stranger  'd 
been  hurtin'  him.  So  I  never  went  spyin'  on 
'em  no  more.  I  felt  as  if  I  couldn't  stan'  it. 
But  when  I  went  to  help  her  with  the  work, 
that  time  he  was  sick,  I  guess  the  neighbors 
thought  I  hadn't  any  sense  of  how  a  right-feelin' 
woman  ought  to  act.  I  guess  they  thought  I 


NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON.     275 

was  sort  o'  coarse  an'  low,  an'  didn't  realize 
what  I  'd  been  through.  Dear,  don't  you 
never  believe  it.  The  feelin'  that  's  between 
husband  an'  wife  's  like  a  live  creatur',  an'  when 
he  told  me  that  night  that  he  didn't  prize  me 
no  more,  he  wounded  it ;  an'  when  he  married 
the  other  woman,  he  killed  it  dead.  If  he  'd 
ha'  come  back  to  me  then,  an'  swore  he  was 
the  same  man  I  married,  I  could  ha'  died  for 
him,  jest  as  I  would  this  minute,  but  he  never 
should  ha'  touched  me.  But  suthin'  had  riz  up 
in  the  place  o'  the  feelin'  I  had  fust,  so  't  I 
never  could  ha'  helped  doin'  for  him,  any 
more  'n  if  he  'd  been  my  own  child." 

" '  In  the  resurrection,  they  neither  marry 
nor  are  given  in  marriage ! ' ' 

"  I  guess  that 's  it,"  said  Nancy.  "  On'y  you 
have  to  live  through  a  good  deal  afore  you 
understand  it.  Well,  now,  dear,  I  'm  nearin' 
the  end.  There  's  one  thing  that 's  come  to 
me  while  I  've  been  livin'  through  this,  that  I 
'ain't  never  heard  anybody  mention ;  an'  I  want 
you  to  remember  it,  so  's  you  can  tell  folks  that 
are  in  great  trouble,  the  way  I  've  been.  I  've 
been  thinkin'  on't  out  that  there  's  jest  so  much 
of  everything  in  the  world,  —  so  much  gold,  so 
much  silver,  so  many  di'monds.  You  can't 
make  no  more  nor  no  less.  All  you  can  do  is 
to  pass  'em  about  from  hand  to  hand,  so  't 
sometimes  here  '11  be  somebody  that 's  rich, 


276  MEADOW-GRASS. 

an'  then  it  '11  slip  away  from  him,  an'  he  '11  be 
poor.  Now,  accordin'  to  my  lights,  it 's  jes'  so 
with  love.  There  's  jest  so  much,  an'  when  it 's 
took  away  from  you,  an'  passed  over  to  some 
body  else,  it 's  alive,  it 's  there,  same  as  ever  it 
was.  So  't  you  ain't  goin'  to  say  it 's  all  holler 
an'  empty,  this  world.  You  're  goin'  to  say, 
'Well,  it 's  som'er's,  if  'tain't  with  me  ! '  " 

Nancy  had  straightened  herself,  without  the 
support  of  her  pillows.  Her  eyes  were  bright. 
A  faint  flush  had  come  upon  her  cheeks.  A 
doctor  would  have  told  me  that  my  devoted 
friendship  had  not  saved  me  from  being  a 
wretched  nurse. 

"  My  home  was  broke  up,"  she  went  on, 
"  but  there  's  a  nice,  pretty  house  there  jest  the 
same.  There  's  a  contented  couple  livin'  in  it, 
an'  what  if  the  wife  ain't  me?  It  ain't  no 
matter.  P'r'aps  it  's  a  lot  better  that  somebody 
else  should  have  it,  somebody  that  couldn't 
git  along  alone,  an'  not  me,  that  can  see  the 
rights  o'  things.  Jest  so  much  love,  dear  — 
don't  you  forgit  that  —  no  matter  where  'tis  ! 
An'  James  could  take  his  love  away  from  me, 
but  the  Lord  A'mighty  himself  can't  take  mine 
from  him.  An'  so  'tis,  the  world  over.  You 
can  al'ays  love  folks,  an'  do  for  'em,  even  if 
your  doin'  's  only  breakin'  your  heart  an'  givin' 
'em  up.  An'  do  you  s'pose  there  's  any  sp'ere 
o'  life  where  I  sha'n't  be  allowed  to  do  some- 


NANCY  BOYD'S  LAST  SERMON.     277 

thin'  for  James?     I  guess  not,  dear,  I  guess  not, 
even  if  it 's  only  keepin'  away  from  him." 

Nancy  lived  three  days,  in  a  state  of  delighted 
content  with  us  and  our  poor  ministrations  ;  and 
only  once  did  we  approach  the  subject  of  that 
solemn  night.  As  the  end  drew  near,  I  became 
more  and  more  anxious  to  know  if  she  had  a 
wish  unfulfilled,  and  at  length  I  ventured  to  ask 
her  softly,  when  we  were  alone,  — 

"Would  you  like  to  see  him?" 

Her  bright  eyes  looked  at  me,  in  a  startled 
way. 

"  No,  dear,  no,"  she  said,  evidently  surprised 
that  I  could  ask  it.  "  Bless  you,  no  !  " 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON. 

TN  Tiverton,  when  reminiscences  are  in  order, 
•*•  we  go  back  to  one  very  rich  year;  then 
the  circus  and  strolling  players  came  to  town, 
and  the  usual  camp-meeting  was  followed  by  an 
epidemic  of  scarlet  fever,  which  might  have 
stood  forth  as  the  judgment  of  heaven,  save 
that  the  newly  converted  were  stricken  first  and 
undoubtedly  fared  hardest.  Hiram  Cole  said 
it  was  because  they  'd  "  got  all  their  nerve -juice 
used  up,  hollerin'  hallelujah."  But  that  I 
know  not.  This  theory  of  nerve-juice  was  a 
favorite  one  with  Hiram  :  he  contended  that  it 
had  a  powerful  hand  in  determining  the  results 
of  presidential  elections;  and,  indeed,  in  sway 
ing  the  balance  of  power  among  the  nations  of 
the  earth. 

Even  in  the  early  spring,  there  had  been 
several  cases  of  fever  at  Sudleigh ;  and  so, 
when  the  circus  made  application  for  a  license 
to  take  possession  of  the  town,  according  to 
olden  custom,  the  public  authorities  very  wisely 
refused.  Tiverton,  however,  was  wroth  at  this 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.       279 

arbitrary  restriction.  For  more  years  than  I 
can  say,  she  had  driven  over  to  Sudleigh  "  to 
see  the  caravan;"  and  now,  through  some 
crack-brained  theory  of  contagion,  the  caravan 
was  to  be  barred  out.  We  never  really  believed 
that  the  town-fathers  had  taken  their  high 
handed  measure  on  account  of  scarlet  fever. 
We  saw  in  it  some  occult  political  significance, 
and  referred  ominously  to  the  butter  we  carried 
there  on  Saturdays,  and  to  the  possibility  that, 
if  they  cast  us  off,  a  separation  might  affect 
them  far  more  seriously  than  it  would  us.  But 
to  our  loud-voiced  delight,  the  caravan,  finding 
that  it  was  to  be  within  hailing  distance,  and 
unwilling  to  pass  on  without  further  tribute, 
extended  the  sceptre  to  Tiverton  herself;  and 
Brad  Freeman  joyfully  discussed  the  project  of 
making  a  circus  ground  of  his  old  race-course, 
which,  he  declared,  he  had  purposed  plant 
ing  with  tobacco.  We  never  knew  whether  to 
believe  this  or  not,  though  we  had  many  times 
previously  gone  over  Brad's  calculation,  by 
which  he  figured  that  he  could  sell  at  least 
three  tons  of  fine-cut  from  one  summer's  prod 
uce.  To  that  specious  logic,  we  always  listened 
with  unwilling  admiration ;  but  when  we  could 
shake  off  the  glamour  inseparable  from  a  prob 
lem  made  to  come  out  right,  we  were  accus 
tomed  to  turn  to  one  another,  demanding  with 
cold  scepticism,  "  Where  'd  he  git  his  seed?" 


280  MEADOW-GRASS. 

In  spite  of  the  loss  of  this  potential  crop,  how 
ever,  Brad  was  magnanimously  willing  to  let  his 
field ;  and  Tiverton  held  her  head  high,  in  the 
prospect  of  having  a  circus  of  her  own.  We 
intimated  that  it  would  undoubtedly  be  fair 
weather,  owing  to  our  superior  moral  desert  as 
compared  with  that  of  Sudleigh,  which  was 
annually  afflicted  with  what  had  long  been 
known  as  "  circus-weather."  For  Sudleigh  had 
sinned,  and  Nature  was  thenceforth  deputed  to 
pay  her  back,  in  good  old  Hebrew  style.  One 
circus-day  —  before  the  war,  as  I  believe  — 
Sudleigh  fenced  up  the  spring  in  a  corner  of 
her  grounds,  and  with  a  foolish  thrift  sold  ice- 
water  to  the  crowd,  at  a  penny  a  glass.  Tiver 
ton  was  furious,  and  so,  apparently,  were  the 
just  heavens ;  for  every  circus-day  thereafter 
it  rained,  in  a  fashion  calculated  to  urge  any 
forehanded  Noah  into  immediate  action.  We 
of  Tiverton  never  allowed  our  neighbor  to 
forget  her  criminal  lapse.  When,  on  circus- 
afternoon,  we  met  one  of  the  rival  township, 
dripping  as  ourselves,  we  said,  with  all  the 
cheerfulness  of  conscious  innocence,  — 

"  Water  enough  for  everybody,  to-day ! 
Guess  ye  won't  have  to  peddle  none  out !  " 

"  Seems  to  be  comin'  down  pretty  fast ! 
You  better  build  a  platfoam  over  that  spring  ! 
Go  hard  with  ye  if 't  overflowed  !" 

Strange   to   say,   Sudleigh  seemed  to  regard 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.      281 

these  time-licensed  remarks  with  little  favor ; 
she  even  intimated  that  they  smacked  of  the 
past,  and  were  wearisome  in  her  nostrils.  But 
not  for  that  did  we  halt  in  their  distribution. 
Moreover,  we  flaunted  our  domestic  loyalty  by 
partaking  of  no  Sudleigh  fluid  within  the 
grounds.  We  carried  tea,  coffee,  lemonade, 
milk,  an  ambitious  variety  of  drinks,  in  order 
that  even  our  children  might  be  spared  the 
public  disgrace  of  tasting  Sudleigh  water ;  and 
it  was  a  part  of  our  excellent  fooling  to  invite 
every  Sudleighian  to  drink  with  us.  Even  the 
virtues,  however,  spare  their  votaries  no  pang ; 
and  in  every  family,  this  unbending  fealty  re 
sulted  in  the  individual  members'  betaking 
themselves  to  the  pump  or  well,  immediately 
on  getting  home,  even  before  attempting  to 
unharness.  About  five  o'clock,  on  circus-after 
noon,  there  would  be  a  general  rumbling  of 
buckets  and  creaking  of  sweeps,  while  a  chorus 
rose  to  heaven,  "  My  !  I  was  'most  choked  !  " 

But  our  fete-day  dawned  bright  and  speck- 
less.  We  rose  before  three  o'clock,  every  man, 
woman  and  child  of  us,  to  see  the  procession 
come  into  town.  It  would  leave  the  railway  at 
Sudleigh,  and  we  had  a  faint  hope  of  its  form 
ing  in  regulation  style,  and  sweeping  into 
Tiverton,  a  blaze  of  glittering  chariots  sur 
mounted  by  queens  of  beauty,  of  lazy  beasts 
of  the  desert  sulking  in  their  cages,  and  dainty- 


282  MEADOW-GRASS. 

stepping  horses,  ridden  by  bold  amazons.  For 
a  time,  the  expectation  kept  us  bright  and 
hopeful,  although  most  of  us  had  only  taken  a 
"cold  bite  "  before  starting;  but  as  the  eastern 
saffron  pencilled  one  line  of  light  and  the  bird 
chorus  swelled  in  piercing  glory,  we  grew  cross 
and  all  unbefitting  the  smiling  morn.  Only 
Dilly  Joyce  looked  sunshiny  as  ever,  for  she 
had  no  domestic  cares  to  beckon  her ;  she  and 
Nance  Pete,  who  was  in  luck  that  day,  having 
a  full  pipe.  Dilly  had  nestled  into  a  rock, 
curved  in  the  form  of  a  chair,  and  lay  watching 
the  eastern  sky,  a  faint  smile  of  pleasure  part 
ing  her  lips  when  the  saffron  hardened  into 
gold. 

"  Nice,  dear,  ain  't  it?  "  she  said,  as  I  paused 
a  moment  near  her.  "  I  al'ays  liked  the  side 
o'  the  road.  But  it 's  kind  o'  disturbin'  to  have 
so  much  talk.  I  dunno  's  you  can  help  it, 
though,  where  there 's  so  many  people.  Most 
o'  the  time,  I  'm  better  on  't  to  home,  but  I  did 
want  to  see  an  elephant  near  to  !  " 

The  sky  broadened  into  light,  and  the  birds 
jeered  at  us,  poor,  draggled  folk  who  lived  in 
boxes  and  were  embarrassed  by  the  morn. 
The  men  grew  nervous,  for  milking-time  was 
near,  and  in  imagination  I  have  no  doubt  they 
heard  the  lowing  of  reproachful  kine. 

"Well,  'tain't  no  use,"  said  Eli  Pike,  rising 
from  the  stone-wall,  and  stretching  himself,  with 


STROLLERS   IN    TIVERTON.       283 

decision.  "  I  Ve  got  to  'tend  to  them  cows, 
whether  or  no  !  "  And  he  strolled  away  on  the 
country-road,  without  a  look  behind.  Most  of 
the  other  men,  as  in  honor  bound,  followed 
him ;  and  the  women,  with  loud-voiced  pro 
test  against  an  obvious  necessity,  trailed  after 
them,  to  strain  the  milk.  Only  we  who  formed 
the  gypsy  element  were  left  behind. 

"  I  call  it  a  real  shame  ! "  announced  Mrs. 
Pike,  gathering  her  summer  shawl  about  her 
shoulders,  and  stepping  away  with  an  offended 
dignity  such  as  no  delinquent  elephant  could 
have  faced.  "  I  warrant  ye,  they  wouldn't 
ha'  treated  Sudleigh  so.  They  wouldn't  ha' 
dared  !  " 

"  I  dunno  's  Sudleigh  's  any  more  looked  up 
to  'n  we  be,"  said  Caleb  Rivers,  who  had  been 
so  tardy  in  bestirring  himself  that  he  formed 
a  part  of  the  women's  corps.  "  I  guess,  if  the 
truth  was  known,  Tiverton  covers  more  land'n 
Sudleigh  does,  on'y  Sudleigh  's  all  humped  up 
together  into  a  quart  bowl.  I  guess  there  's 
countries  that  'ain't  heard  o'  Sudleigh,  an' 
wouldn't  stan'  much  in  fear  if  they  had  !  " 

And  so  Tiverton  dispersed,  unamiably,  and 
with  its  public  pride  hurt  to  the  quick.  I  tried 
to  take  pattern  by  Dilly  Joyce,  and  steal  from 
nature  a  little  of  the  wonderful  filial  enjoyment 
which  came  to  her  unsought.  When  Dilly 
watched  the  sky,  I  did,  also ;  when  she  bright- 


284  MEADOW-GRASS. 

ened  at  sound  of  a  bird  hitherto  silent,  I  tried 
to  set  down  his  notes  in  my  memory ;  and  when 
she  closed  her  eyes,  and  shut  out  the  world,  to 
think  it  over,  I  did  the  same.  But  the  result 
was  different.  Probably  Dilly  opened  hers 
again  upon  the  lovely  earth,  but  I  drifted  off 
into  dreamland,  and  only  awoke,  two  hours 
after,  to  find  the  scenes  marvellously  changed. 
It  was  bright,  steady  morning,  the  morning 
come  to  stay.  Tiverton  had  performed  its 
dairy  rites,  and  returned  again,  enlivened  by  a 
cup  of  tea ;  and  oh,  incredible  joy  !  there  was 
a  grunting  and  panting,  a  swaying  of  mighty 
flanks.  The  circus  was  approaching,  from 
Sudleigh  way.  Instantly  I  was  alert  and  on  my 
feet,  for  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  miss 
the  contagion  of  the  general  joy.  I  knew  how 
we  felt,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  Tivertonians 
alone.  We  were  tolerant  potentates,  waiting, 
in  gracious  majesty,  to  receive  a  deputation 
from  the  farther  East.  It  grieves  me  much  to 
stop  here  and  confess,  with  a  necessary  honesty, 
that  this  was  but  a  sorry  circus,  gauged  by  the 
conventional  standards ;  else,  I  suppose,  it  had 
never  come  to  Tiverton  at  all.  The  circus-folk 
had  evidently  dressed  for  travelling,  not  for 
us.  The  chariots,  some  of  them  still  hooded 
in  canvas,  were  very  small  and  tarnished. 
There  were  but  three  elephants,  two  camels, 
and  a  most  meagre  display  of  those  alluring 


STROLLERS    IN   TIVERTON.       285 

cages  made  to  afford  even  the  careless  eye  a 
sudden,  quickening  glimpse  of  restless,  tawny 
form,  or  slothful  hulk  within.  Yet  why  depre 
ciate  the  raw  material  whereof  Fancy  has  power 
divine  to  build  her  altogether  perfect  heights? 
Here  was  the  plain,  homely  setting  of  our 
plainer  lives,  and  right  into  the  midst  of  it  had 
come  the  East.  The  elephants  affected  us 
most;  we  probably  thought  little  about  the 
immemorial  mystery,  the  vague,  occult  tradi 
tion  wrapped  in  that  mouse-colored  hide ;  but 
even  to  our  dense  Western  imagination  such 
quickening  suggestion  was  vividly  apparent. 
We  knew  our  world ;  usually  it  seemed  to  us 
the  only  one,  even  when  we  looked  at  the  stars. 
But  at  least  one  other  had  been  created,  and 
before  us  appeared  its  visible  sign,  —  my  lord 
the  elephant !  There  he  was,  swaying  along, 
conscious  philosopher,  conscious  might,  yet 
holding  his  omniscience  in  the  background,  and 
keeping  a  wary  eye  out  for  the  peanuts  with 
which  we  simple  country  souls  had  not  provided 
ourselves.  There  was  one  curious  thing  about 
it  all.  We  had  seen  the  circus  at  Sudleigh,  as 
I  have  said,  yet  the  fact  of  entertaining  it  within 
our  borders  made  it  seem  exactly  as  if  we  had 
never  laid  eyes  upon  it  before.  This  was  our 
caravan,  and  God  Almighty  had  created  the 
elephant  for  us.  Dilly  Joyce  slipped  her  hand 
quickly  in  mine  and  pressed  it  hard.  She  was 


286  MEADOW-GRASS. 

quite  pale.  Yet  it  was  she  who  acted  upon 
the  first  practical  thought.  She  recovered  her 
self  before  my  lord  went  by,  took  a  ginger 
cookie  from  her  pocket,  and  put  it  into  Davie 
Tolman's  hand. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  pushing  him  forward,  "you 
go  an'  offer  it  to  him.  He  '11  take  it.  See  'f 
he  don't!" 

Davie  accepted  the  mission  with  joy,  and  per 
sisted  in  it  until  he  found  himself  close  beside 
that  swaying  bulk,  and  saw  the  long  trunk  curved 
enticingly  toward  him.  Then  he  uttered  one 
explosive  howl,  and  fell  back  on  the  very  toes 
of  us  who  were  pressing  forward  to  partake,  by 
right  of  sympathy,  in  the  little  drama. 

"  Lordy  Massy,  keep  still !  "  cried  out  Nance 
Pete  ;  and  she  snatched  him  up  bodily,  and  held 
him  out  to  the  elephant.  I  believe  my  own 
pang  at  that  moment  to  have  been  general.  I 
forgot  that  elephants  are  not  carnivorous,  and 
shuddered  back,  under  the  expectation  of  see 
ing  Davie  devoured,  hide  and  hair.  But  Nance 
had  the  address  to  stiffen  the  little  arm,  and 
my  lord  took  the  cookie,  still  clutched  in  the 
despairing  hand,  and  passed  on.  Then  Davie 
wiped  his  eyes,  after  peeping  stealthily  about  to 
see  whether  anyone  was  disposed  to  jeer  at  him, 
and  took  such  courage  that  he  posed,  ever  after, 
as  the  hero  of  the  day. 

The  procession  had  nearly  passed    us  when 


STROLLERS   IN    TIVERTON.       287 

we  saw  a  sight  calculated  to  animate  us  anew 
with  a  justifiable  pride.  Sudleigh  itself,  its 
young  men  and  maidens,  old  men  and  children, 
was  following  the  circus  into  our  town.  It 
would  not  have  a  circus  of  its  own,  forsooth,  but 
it  would  share  in  ours  !  We,  as  by  one  con 
sent,  assumed  an  air  of  dignified  self-impor 
tance.  We  were  the  hosts  of  the  day ;  we 
bowed  graciously  to  such  of  our  guests  as  we 
knew,  and,  with  a  mild  tolerance,  looked  over 
the  heads  of  those  who  were  unfamiliar.  Yet 
nothing  checked  our  happy  companionship  with 
the  caravan  ;  still  we  followed  by  the  side  of  the 
procession,  through  tangles  of  blackberry  vine, 
and  over  ditch  and  stubble.  Some  of  the  boys 
mounted  the  walls,  and  ran  wildly,  dislodging 
stones  as  they  went,  and  earning  no  reproof 
from  the  fathers  who,  on  any  other  day,  would 
have  been  alive  to  a  future  mowing  and  the 
clashing  of  scythe  and  rock.  There  was,  more 
over,  an  impression  abroad  that  our  progress 
could  by  no  means  be  considered  devoid  of 
danger. 

"  S'pose  that  fellar  should  rise  up,  an'  wrench 
off  them  bars  !  "  suggested  Heman  Blaisdell, 
pointing  out  one  cage  where  a  great  creature, 
gaudy  in  stripes,  paced  back  and  forth,  throw 
ing  us  an  occasional  look  of  scorn  and  great 
despite.  "  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  my  chances  ! 
Nor  for  anybody  else's  !  " 


288  MEADOW-GRASS. 

"  My  soul  an'  body  !  "  ejaculated  a  woman. 
"  I  hope  they  don't  forgit  to  lock  them  cages 
up  !  Folks  git  awful  careless  when  they  do  a 
thing  every  day  !  I  forgot  to  shet  up  the  hins 
last  week,  an'  that  was  the  night  the  skunk  got 
in." 

"I'm  glad  Brad  brought  his  gun,"  said 
another,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  would  have 
crossed  herself  had  there  been  a  saint  to  help. 
And  thereafter  we  kept  so  thickly  about  Brad, 
walking  with  his  long  free  stride,  that  his  prog 
ress  became  impeded,  and  he  almost  fell  over 
us.  Suddenly,  from  the  front,  a  man's  voice 
rose  in  an  imperative  cry,  — 

"Turn  round  !  turn  round  !  " 

Quite  evidently  the  mandate  was  addressed 
to  us,  and  we  turned  in  a  mass,  fleeing  back  into 
Sudleigh's  very  arms.  For  a  moment,  it  was 
like  Sparta  and  Persia  striving  in  the  Pass ; 
then  Sudleigh  turned  also,  such  as  were  on  foot, 
and  fled  with  us.  We  pressed  up  the  bank,  as 
soon  as  we  could  collect  our  errant  wits ;  some 
of  us,  with  a  sense  of  coming  calamity,  mounted 
the  very  wall,  and  there  we  had  a  moment  to 
look  about  us.  The  caravan  was  keeping  stead 
ily  on,  like  fate  and  taxes,  and  facing  it  stood  a 
carryall  attached  to  a  frightened  horse.  On  the 
front  seat,  erect  in  her  accustomed  majesty,  sat 
Aunt  Melissa  Adams ;  and  Uncle  Hiram,  ever  a 
humble  charioteer,  was  by  her  side.  They,  too, 


STROLLERS   IN    TIVERTON.       289 

had  driven  out  to  see  the  circus,  but  alas  !  it 
had  not  struck  them  that  they  might  meet  it 
midway,  with  no  volition  of  drawing  up  at  the 
side  of  the  road  and  allowing  it  to  pass.  The 
old  horse,  hardened  to  the  vicissitudes  of  many 
farming  seasons,  had  necessarily  no  acquaint 
ance  with  the  wild  beasts  of  the  Orient ;  no 
past  experience,  tucked  away  in  his  wise  old 
head,  could  explain  them  in  the  very  least.  He 
plunged  and  reared ;  he  snorted  with  fear,  and 
Aunt  Melissa  began  to  emit  shrieks  of  such 
volume  and  quality  that  the  mangy  lion,  com 
posing  himself  to  sleep  in  his  cage,  rose,  and 
sent  forth  a  cry  that  Tiverton  will  long  remem 
ber.  We  did  not  stop  to  explain  our  forebod 
ings,  but  we  were  sure  that,  in  some  mysterious 
way,  Aunt  Melissa  was  doomed,  and  that  she 
had  brought  her  misfortune  on  herself.  A  second 
Daniel,  she  had  no  special  integrity  to  stand 
her  in  need.  And  still  the  circus  advanced, 
and  the  horse  snorted  and  backed.  He  was  a 
gaunt  old  beast,  but  in  his  terror,  one  moment 
of  beauty  dignified  him  beyond  belief.  His 
head  was  high,  his  eyes  were  starting. 

"  Turn  round  !  "  cried  the  men,  but  Uncle 
Hiram  was  paralyzed,  and  the  reins  lay  supine 
in  his  hands,  while  he  screamed  a  wheezy 
"  Whoa  !  "  Then  Brad  Freeman,  as  usual  in 
cases  outside  precedent,  became  the  good  angel 
of  Tiverton.  He  forced  his  gun  on  the  person 
19 


290  MEADOW-GRASS. 

nearest  at  hand  —  who  proved  to  be  Nance 
Pete  —  and  dashed  forward.  Seizing  the  fright 
ened  horse  by  the  head,  he  cramped  the  wheel 
scientifically,  and  turned  him  round.  Then  he 
gave  him  a  smack  on  the  flank,  and  the  carryall 
went  reeling  and  swaying  back  into  Tiverton, 
the  avant-courrier  of  the  circus.  You  should 
have  heard  Aunt  Melissa's  account  of  that  ride, 
an  epic  moment  which  she  treasured,  in  awe,  to 
the  day  of  her  death.  According  to  her,  it 
asked  no  odds  from  the  wild  huntsman,  or  the 
Gabriel  hounds.  Well,  we  cowards  came  down 
from  the  wall,  assuring  each  other,  with  voices 
still  shaking  a  little,  that  we  knew  it  was  nothing, 
after  all,  and  that  nobody  but  Aunt  Melissa 
would  make  such  a  fuss.  How  she  did  holler  ! 
we  said,  with  conscious  pride  in  our  own  self- 
possession  when  brought  into  unexpectedly  close 
relations  with  wild  beasts  ;  and  we  trudged  hap 
pily  along  through  the  dust  stirred  by  alien 
trampling,  back  to  Tiverton  Street,  and  down 
into  Brad  Freeman's  field.  It  would  hardly  be 
possible  to  describe  our  joy  in  watching  the 
operation  of  tent-raising,  nor  our  pride  in  Brad 
Freeman,  when  he  assumed  the  character  of 
host,  and  not  only  made  the  circus-folk  free  of 
the  ground  they  had  hired,  but  hurried  here  and 
there,  helping  with  such  address  and  muscular 
vigor  that  we  felt  defrauded  in  never  having 
known  how  accomplished  he  really  was.  The 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.       291 

strollers  recognized  his  type,  in  no  time  ;  they 
were  joking  with  him  and  clapping  him  on  the 
back  before  the  first  tent  had  been  unrolled. 
Now,  none  of  us  had  ever  seen  a  circus  per 
former,  save  in  the  ring ;  and  I  think  we  were 
disappointed,  for  a  moment,  at  finding  we  had 
in  our  midst  no  spangled  angels  in  rosy  tights, 
no  athletes  standing  on  their  heads  by  choice, 
and  quite  preferring  the  landscape  upside  down, 
but  a  set  of  shabbily  dressed,  rather  jaded  men 
and  women,  who  were,  for  all  the  world,  just  like 
ourselves,  save  that  they  walked  more  grace 
fully,  and  spoke  in  softer  voice.  But  when  the 
report  went  round  that  the  cook  was  getting 
breakfast  ready — out  of  doors,  too  !  —  we  were 
more  than  compensated  for  the  loss  of  such 
tinsel  joys.  Chattering  and  eager,  we  ran  over 
to  the  dining-tent,  and  there,  close  beside  it, 
found  the  little  kitchen,  its  ovens  smoking  hot, 
and  a  man  outside,  aproned  and  capped,  cutting 
up  chops  and  steaks,  with  careless  deftness,  and 
laying  them  in  the  great  iron  pans,  preparatory 
to  broiling. 

"  By  all  't  's  good  an'  bad  !  "  swore  Tom 
McNeil,  a  universal  and  sweeping  oath  he 
much  affected,  "  they  Ve  got  a  whole  sheep  an' 
a  side  o'  beef !  Well,  it 's  high  livin',  an'  no 
mistake  ! " 

We  who  considered  a  few  pies  a  baking, 
watched  this  wholesale  cookery  in  bewildered 


292  MEADOW-GRASS. 

fascination.  A  savory  smell  arose  to  heaven.  I 
never  was  so  hungry  in  my  life,  and  I  believe  all 
Tiverton  would  own  to  the  same  craving.  Per 
haps  some  wild  instinct  sprang  up  in  us  with 
the  scent  of  meat  in  out-door  air,  but  at  any 
rate,  we  became  much  exhilarated,  and  our 
attention  was  only  turned  from  the  beguiling 
chops  by  Mrs.  Wilson's  saying,  in  a  low  tone,  to 
her  husband,  — 

"  Lothrop,  if  there  ain't  Lucindy,  an'  that 
Molly  McNeil  with  her  !  What's  Lucindy  got? 
My  sake  alive  !  you  might  ha'  known  she  'd  do 
suthin'  to  make  anybody  wish  they  'd  stayed  to 
home.  If  you  can  git  near  her,  you  keep  a 
tight  holt  on  her,  or  she  '11  be  jumpin'  through  a 
hoop  !  " 

I  turned,  with  the  rest.  Yes,  there  was  Miss 
Lucindy,  tripping  happily  across  the  level  field. 
Molly  McNeil  hastened  beside  her,  and  between 
them  they  carried  a  large  clothes-basket,  over 
flowing  with  flaming  orange-red;  a  basket 
heaped  with  sunset,  not  the  dawn  !  They  were 
very  near  me  when  I  guessed  what  it  was  ;  so 
near  that  I  could  see  the  happy  smile  on 
Lucindy's  parted  lips,  and  note  how  high  the 
rose  flush  had  risen  in  her  delicate  cheek,  with 
happiness  and  haste. 

"  Stortions  !  "  broke  out  a  voice  near  me,  in 
virile  scorn, —  Nance  Pete's,  —  "  stortions  !  Jes' 
like  her  !  Better  picked  'em  a  mess  o'  pease  !  " 


STROLLERS   IN    TIVERTON.       293 

It  was,  indeed,  a  basket  of  red  nasturtiums, 
and  the  sun  had  touched  them  into  a  glory  like 
his  own.  For  one  brief  moment,  we  were 
ashamed  of  Lucindy's  "  shallerness  "  and  irrele 
vancy;  but  the  circus  people  interpreted  her 
better.  They  rose  from  box  and  hamper  where 
they  had  been  listlessly  awaiting  their  tardy 
breakfast,  and  crowded  forward  to  meet  her. 
They  knew,  through  the  comradeship  of  all 
Bohemia,  exactly  what  she  meant. 

"My!"  said  Miss  Lucindy,  smiling  full  at 
them  as  they  came,  —  her  old,  set  smile  had 
been  touched,  within  a  year,  by  something  glad 
and  free,  —  "set  'em  down  now,  Molly.  My! 
are  you  the  folks  ?  Well,  I  thought  you  'd  seem 
different,  somehow,  but  anyway,  we  brought  you 
over  a  few  blooms.  We  thought  you  couldn't 
have  much  time,  movin'  round  so,  to  work  in 
your  gardins,  especially  the  things  you  have  to 
sow  every  year.  Yes,  dear,  yes  !  Take  a  good 
handful.  Here  's  a  little  mignonette  I  put  in 
the  bottom,  so  't  everybody  could  have  a  sprig. 
Yes,  there  's  enough  for  the  men,  too.  Why, 
yes,  help  yourself !  Law,  dear,  why  don't  you 
take  off  your  veil?  Hot  as  this  is  !  "  for  the 
bearded  lady,  closely  masked  in  black  barege, 
had  come  forward  and  hungrily  stretched  out  a 
great  hand  for  her  share. 

We  never  knew  how  it  all  happened,  but  dur 
ing  this  clamor  of  happy  voices,  the  chops  were 


294  MEADOW-GRASS. 

cooked  and  the  coffee  boiled ;  the  circus  peo 
ple  turned  about,  and  trooped  into  the  tent 
where  the  tables  were  set,  and  they  took  Miss 
Lucindy  with  them.  Yes,  they  did !  Molly 
McNeil  stayed  contentedly  outside  ;  for  though 
she  had  brought  her  share  of  the  treasure,  quite 
evidently  she  considered  herself  a  friendly  helper, 
not  a  partner  in  the  scheme.  But  Miss  Lu 
cindy  was  the  queen  of  the  carnival.  We  heard 
one  girl  say  to  another,  as  our  eccentric  towns- 
woman  swept  past  us,  in  the  eager  crowd,  "  Oh, 
the  dear  old  thing  !  "  We  saw  a  sad-eyed  girl 
bend  forward,  lift  a  string  of  Miss  Lucindy's 
apron  (which,  we  felt,  should  have  been  left 
behind  in  the  kitchen)  and  give  it  a  hearty  kiss. 
Later,  when,  by  little  groups,  we  peeped  into 
the  dining-tent,  we  saw  Miss  Lucindy  sitting 
there  at  the  table,  between  two  women  who 
evidently  thought  her  the  very  nicest  person 
that  had  ever  crossed  their  wandering  track. 
There  she  was,  an  untouched  roll  and  chop  on 
her  plate,  a  cup  of  coffee  by  her  side.  She  was 
not  talking.  She  only  smiled  happily  at  those 
who  talked  to  her,  and  her  eyes  shone  very 
bright.  We  were  ashamed ;  I  confess  it.  For 
was  not  Sudleigh,  also,  there  to  see? 

"  Oh,  my  soul !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wilson,  in 
fretful  undertone.  "  I  wish  the  old  Judge  was 
here  !  " 

Her  husband  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.       295 

she  quailed  ;  not  with  fear  of  him,  but  at  the 
vision  of  the  outraged  truth. 

"Well,  no,"  she  added,  weakly,  "  I  dunno  's  I 
wish  anything  so  bad  as  that,  but  I  do  declare  I 
think  there  ought  to  be  somebody  to  keep  a 
tight  grip  on  Lucindy  !  " 

Who  shall  deem  himself  worthy  to  write  the 
chronicle  of  that  glorious  day  ?  There  were  so 
many  incidents  not  set  down  in  the  logical 
drama  ;  so  many  side-shows  of  circumstance  ! 
We  watched  all  the  mysterious  preparations  for 
the  afternoon  performance,  so  far  as  we  were 
allowed,  with  the  keenness  of  the  wise,  who 
recognize  a  special  wonder  and  will  not  let  it 
pass  unproved.  We  surrounded  Miss  Lucindy, 
when  she  came  away  from  her  breakfast  party, 
and  begged  for  an  exact  account  of  all  her  en 
tertainers  had  said  ;  but  she  could  tell  us  noth 
ing.  She  only  reiterated,  with  eyes  sparkling 
anew,  that  they  were  "  proper  nice  folks,  proper 
nice  !  and  she  must  go  home  and  get  Ellen. 
If  she  'd  known  they  were  just  like  other  folks 
she  'd  have  brought  Ellen  this  morning ;  but 
she  'd  been  afraid  there  'd  be  talk  that  little 
girls  better  not  hear." 

At  noon,  we  sat  about  in  the  shade  of  the 
trees  along  the  wall,  and  ate  delicious  cold  food 
from  the  butter-boxes  and  baskets  our  men-folks 
had  brought  over  during  the  forenoon  lull ;  and 
we  assiduously  offered  Sudleigh  a  drink,  when- 


296  MEADOW-GRASS. 

ever  it  passed  the  counter  where  barrels  of  free 
spring-water  had  been  set.  And  then,  at  the 
first  possible  moment,  we  paid  our  fee,  and 
went  inside  the  tent  to  see  the  animals.  That 
scrubby  menagerie  had  not  gained  in  dignity 
from  its  transferrence  to  canvas  walls.  The 
enclosure  was  very  hot  and  stuffy ;  there  was  a 
smell  of  dust  and  straw.  The  lion  stretched 
himself,  from  time  to  time,  and  gave  an  angry 
roar  for  savage,  long-lost  joys.  One  bear,  surely 
new  to  the  business,  kept  walking  up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  moaning,  in  an  abandon  of  home 
sickness.  Brad  Freeman  stood  before  the  cage 
when  I  was  there. 

"Say,  Brad,"  said  the  Crane  boy,  slipping 
his  arm  into  the  hunter's,  in  a  good-fellowship 
sure  to  be  reciprocated.  "  Davie  Tolman  said 
you 's  goin'  to  fetch  over  your  fox,  an'  sell  him 
to  the  circus.  Be  you?" 

"  My  Lord  !  "  answered  Brad,  very  violently 
for  him,  the  ever-tolerant.  "  No  !  I  'm  goin'  to 
let  him  go.  Look  at  that!"  And  while  the 
Crane  boy,  unconcerned,  yet  puzzled,  gave  his 
full  attention  to  the  bear,  Brad  passed  on. 

There  was  a  wolf,  I  remember,  darting  about 
his  cage,  slinking,  furtive,  ever  on  a  futile  prowl. 
He  especially  engaged  the  interest  of  Tom 
McNeil,  who  said  admiringly,  as  I,  too,  looked 
through  the  bars,  "  Ain't  he  a  prompt  little  cuss  ?" 
I  felt  that  with  Tom  it  was  the  fascination  of 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.       297 

opposites ;  he  never  could  understand  superla 
tive  energy. 

Just  as  we  were  trooping  into  the  larger  tent 
(there  were  no  three  rings,  I  beg  to  say,  mali 
ciously  calculated  to  distract  the  attention ! 
One,  of  a  goodly  size,  was  quite  enough  for  us  !) 
a  little  voice  piped  up,  "  The  snake 's  got  loose  !  " 
How  we  surged  and  panted,  and  fought  one 
another  for  our  sacred  lives  !  In  vain  were  we 
urged  to  stand  still ;  we  strove  the  more.  And 
when  a  bit  of  rope  perversely  and  maliciously 
coiled  itself  round  Rosa  Tolman's  ankle,  she 
gave  a  shriek  so  loud  and  despairing  that  it  un 
did  us  anew.  If  Sheriff  Holmes  had  not  come 
forward  and  sworn  at  us,  I  believe  we  should 
have  trampled  one  another  out  of  existence ; 
but  he  seemed  so  palpably  the  embodiment  of 
authority,  and  his  oath  the  oath  undoubtedly 
selected  by  legislature  for  that  very  occasion, 
that  we  paused,  and  on  the  passionate  assever 
ation  of  a  circus  man  that  the  snake  was  safely 
in  his  cage,  consented  to  be  calm.  But  Aunt 
Melissa  Adams,  unstrung  by  her  earlier  experi 
ence,  would  trust  no  doubtful  circumstance. 
She  plodded  back  into  the  animal-tent,  assured 
herself,  with  her  own  eyes,  of  the  snake's  pres 
ence  at  his,  own  hearthstone,  and  came  back 
satisfied,  just  as  the  clown  entered  the  ring. 
The  performance  needs  no  bush.  We  had  palm- 
leaf  fans  offered  us,  pop-corn,  and  pink  lemon- 


298  MEADOW-GRASS. 

ade.  We  sweltered  under  the  blazing  canvas, 
laughed  at  the  clown's  musty  fooling,  which  de 
served  rather  the  reverence  due  old  age,  and 
wondered  between  whiles  if  there  would  be  a 
shower,  and  if  tent-poles  were  ever  struck.  Then 
it  was  all  over,  and  we  trailed  out,  in  great  bod 
ily  discomfort  and  spiritual  joy,  to  witness,  quite 
unlocked  for,  the  most  vivid  drama  of  the  day. 
Young  Dana  Harden  was  there,  he  and  his 
wife  who  lived  down  in  Tiverton  Hollow.  Dana 
was  a  nephew  of  Josh,  of  hapless  memory,  and 
"  folks  said  "  that,  like  Josh,  he  had  "  all  the 
Marden  setness,  once  git  him  riled."  But  Mary 
Worthen  had  not  been  in  the  least  afraid  of 
that  when  she  married  him.  Before  their 
engagement,  some  one  had  casually  mentioned 
Dana's  having  inherited  "  setness  "  for  his  pat 
rimony. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said,  "and  if  I  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  him,  I  'd  break  him  of  it,  or 
I  'd  break  his  neck  !  " 

Tiverton  had  been  very  considerate  in  never 
repeating  that  speech  to  Dana ;  and  his  wife,  in 
all  their  five  years  of  married  life,  had  not  ful 
filled  her  threat.  As  we  were  making  ready  to 
leave  the  grounds,  that  day,  and  those  who  had 
horses  were  "  tacklin  up,"  we  became  aware 
that  Dana,  a  handsome,  solid,  fresh-colored  fel 
low,  sat  in  his  wagon  with  pretty  Mary  beside 
him,  and  that  they  evidently  had  no  intention  of 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.      299 

moving  on.     Of  course  we  approached,  to  find 
out  what  the  trouble  might  be. 

"We  can  send  word  to  have  Tom  Bunker 
milk  the  cows,"  said  Dana,  with  distinct  empha 
sis,  "  an'  we  can  stay  for  the  evenin'  perform 
ance.  Or  we  can  go  now.  Only,  you  've  got 
to  say  which  !  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  say,"  returned  Mary,  pla 
cidly,  "  because  I  don't  know  which  you  'd 
rather  have.  You  just  tell  me  so  much  !  " 

A  frown  contracted  his  brow ;  he  looked  a 
middle-aged  man.  When  he  spoke,  his  voice 
grated. 

"  You  tell  which,  or  we  '11  set  here  all  night, 
an'  I  don't  speak  another  word  to  you  till  you 
do!" 

But  Mary  said  nothing. 

"  My  soul !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Rivers  to  me. 
"  She 's  got  herself  into  it  now,  jest  as  they 
say  Lyddy  Ann  Marden  done,  with  Josh.  She  '11 
have  to  back  down  !  " 

Several  more  of  those  aimless  on-lookers,  ever 
ready  for  the  making  of  crowds,  surged  forward. 
The  wagon  was  blocking  the  way.  We  realized 
with  shame  that  Sudleigh,  too,  was  here,  to  say 
nothing  of  sister  towns  less  irritating  to  our 
pride.  It  was  Uncle  Eli  Pike  who  stepped  into 
the  breach. 

"  Here,  Dana  !  "  he  called,  and,  as  we  were 
glad  to  remember,  all  the  aliens  in  the  crowd 


300  MEADOW-GRASS. 

could  hear,  "  I  guess  that  hoss  o'  yourn  's  gittin' 
a  mite  balky.  I  '11  lead  him  a  step,  if  you  say 
so."  And  without  a  word  of  assent  from  Dana, 
he  guided  the  horse  out  of  the  grounds,  and 
started  him  on  the  road.  We  watched  the 
divided  couple,  on  their  common  way.  Dana 
was  driving,  it  is  true  ;  but  we  knew,  with  a  heavy 
certainty,  that  he  was  not  speaking  to  his  wife. 
He  was  a  Harden,  and  nothing  would  make  him 
speak. 

This  slight  but  very  significant  episode  sent 
us  home  in  a  soberer  mind  than  any  of  us  had 
anticipated,  after  the  gaudy  triumphs  of  the  day. 
We  could  not  quell  our  curiosity  over  the  upshot 
of  it  all,  and  that  night,  after  the  chores  were 
done,  we  sat  in  the  darkness,  interspersing  our 
comments  on  the  spangled  butterflies  of  horse 
and  hoop  with  an  awed  question,  now  and  then, 
while  the  minute-hand  sped,  "  S'pose  they  've 
spoke  yit?" 

Alas  !  the  prevailing  voice  was  still  against  it ; 
and  when  we  went  to  market,  and  met  there  the 
people  from  the  Hollow  (who  were  somewhat 
more  bucolic  than  we),  they  passed  about  the 
open  secret.  Dana  did  not  speak  to  his  wife. 
Again  we  knew  he  never  would.  The  summer 
waned  ;  the  cows  were  turned  into  the  shack, 
and  the  most  "forehanded  "  among  us  began  to 
cut  boughs  for  banking  up  the  house,  and  set 
afoot  other  preparations  for  winter's  cold.  Still 


STROLLERS    IN    TIVERTON.      301 

Dana  had  not  spoken.  But  the  effect  on  Mary 
was  inexplicable  to  us  all.  We  knew  she  loved 
him  deeply,  and  that  the  habits  of  their  rela 
tionship  were  very  tender ;  we  expected  her  to 
sink  and  fail  under  the  burden  of  this  sudden 
exile  of  the  heart,  just  as  Lyddy  Ann  had  done, 
so  many  years  ago.  But  Mary  held  her  head 
high,  and  kept  her  color.  She  even  "went 
abroad  "  more  than  usual ;  ostentatiously  so,  we 
thought,  for  she  would  come  over  to  Tiverton 
to  pass  the  afternoon,  after  the  good,  old-fash 
ioned  style,  with  women  whom  she  knew  but 
slightly.  And,  most  incredible  of  all,  though 
Dana  would  not  speak  to  her,  she  spoke  to  him  ! 
Once,  in  driving  past,  I  heard  her  clear  voice  (it 
seemed  now  a  dauntless  voice  !)  calling,  — 

"  Dana,  dinner  's  ready  !  "  Dana  dropped 
the  board  he  was  carrying,  and  went  in,  a  fierce 
yet  dogged  look  upon  his  face,  as  if  it  needed 
hourly  schooling  to  mirror  his  hard  heart.  Then 
the  agent  of  the  Sudleigh  "  Star,"  who  was  can 
vassing  for  a  new  domestic  paper,  had  also  his 
story  to  tell.  He  went  to  the  Mardens',  and 
Mary,  who  admitted  him,  put  down  her  name, 
and  then  called  blithely  into  the  kitchen,  — 

"  Dana,  I  'm  all  out  o'  change.  Will  you 
hand  me  a  dollar  'n'  a  quarter?" 

Dana,  flushed  red  and  overwhelmed  by  a 
pitiable  embarrassment,  came  to  the  door  and 
gave  the  money;  and  Mary,  with  that  proud 


302  MEADOW-GRASS. 

unconsciousness  which  made  us  wonder  anew 
every  time  we  saw  it  in  her,  thanked  him,  and 
dismissed  the  visitor,  as  if  nothing  were  wrong. 
The  couple  went  as  usual  to  church  and  sociable. 
Certain  lines  deepened  in  Dana's  face,  but  Mary 
grew  every  day  more  light-heartedly  cheerful. 
Yet  the  one-sided  silence  lived,  with  the  terrible 
tenacity  of  evil. 

So  the  days  went  on  until  midwinter  snows 
began  to  blow,  and  then  we  learned,  with  a 
thrill  of  pride,  that  the  International  Dramatic 
Company  proposed  coming  to  our  own  little 
hall,  for  a  two  weeks'  engagement.  Some  said 
Sudleigh  Opera  House  was  too  large  for  it, 
and  too  expensive ;  but  we,  the  wiser  heads, 
were  grandly  aware  that,  with  unusual  acumen, 
the  drama  had  at  last  recognized  the  true  em 
porium  of  taste.  We  resolved  that  this  discrim 
inating  company  should  not  repent  its  choice. 
A  week  before  the  great  first  night,  magnificent 
posters  in  red  and  blue  set  before  us,  in  very 
choice  English,  the  dramatic  performances, 
"  Shakespearean  and  otherwise,"  destined  to 
take  place  among  us.  The  leading  parts  were 
to  be  assumed  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Van  Rensellaer 
Wilde,  "  two  of  the  foremost  artists  in  the  stellar 
world,  supported  by  an  adequate  company." 

The  announcement  ended  with  the  insinuat 
ing  alliteration,  "  Popular  prices  prevail."  The 
very  first  night,  we  were  at  the  door,  an  excited 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.       303 

crowd,  absolutely  before  it  was  open ;  but  early 
as  we  went,  the  hospitable  pianist  held  the  field 
before  us  ;  the  hall  resounded  with  his  jocund 
banging  at  the  very  moment  when  the  pioneer 
among  us  set  foot  within.  I  have  never  seen 
anywhere,  either  on  benefit  or  farewell  night,  a 
cordiality  to  be  compared  with  that  which  pre 
sided  over  our  own  theatre  in  Tiverton  Hall. 
Mr.  Van  Rensellaer  Wilde  himself  stood  within 
the  doorway,  to  greet  us  as  we  came ;  a  per 
sonable  man,  with  the  smooth,  individual  face 
of  his  profession,  a  moist  and  beery  eye,  a 
catholic  smile,  tolerant  enough  to  include  the 
just  and  the  unjust,  a  rusty,  old-fashioned  stock, 
and  the  very  ancientest  brown  Prince  Albert 
coat  still  in  reputable  existence,  —  a  strange  his 
torical  epitome  of  brushings  and  spongings,  of 
camphor  exile  and  patient  patching.  Quite 
evidently  he  was  not  among  the  prosperous, 
even  in  his  stellar  world.  But  not  for  that 
would  he  repine.  This  present  planet  was  an 
admirable  plot  of  ground,  and  here  he  stood, 
cheerfully  ready  to  induct  us,  the  Puritan-born, 
into  the  fictitious  joys  thereof.  And  popular 
prices  prevailed ;  the  floor  of  the  hall  itself 
confirmed  it.  It  was  divided,  by  chalk-lines, 
into  three  sections.  Enter  the  first  division, 
and  a  legend  at  your  feet  indicated  the  ten-cent 
territory.  Advance  a  little,  and  "  twenty-five 
cents  "  met  the  eye ;  and  presently,  approach- 


304  MEADOW-GRASS. 

ing  the  platform,  you  were  in  the  seats  of  the 
scornful,  thirty-five  cents  each.  The  latter,  by 
common  consent,  were  eschewed  by  the  very 
first  comers,  not  alone  for  reasons  of  thrift,  but 
because  we  thought  they  ought  to  be  left  for  old 
folks,  "a  leetle  mite  hard  o'  hearin',''  or  the 
unfortunates  who  were  "  not  so  fur-sighted  "  as 
we.  So  we  seated  ourselves  in  delight  already 
begun,  for  was  not  Mr.  Gad  Greenfield  per 
forming  one  of  the  "orchestral  pieces"  which 
the  programme  had  led  us  to  expect?  The 
piano  was  an  antique,  accustomed  to  serve  as 
victim  at  Sudleigh's  dancing-school  and  socia 
bles.  I  have  never  heard  its  condition  de 
scribed,  on  its  return  to  Sudleigh ;  I  only 
know  that,  from  some  eccentric  partiality,  Gad 
Greenfield's  music  was  all  fortissimo.  Sally 
Flint,  brought  thither  by  the  much-enduring 
overseer,  for  the  sake  of  domestic  peace, 
seemed  to  be  the  only  one  who  did  not  regard 
Gad's  performance  with  unquestioning  awe. 
She  was  heard  to  say  aloud,  in  a  penetrating 
voice,  — 

"  My  soul  an'  body  !  what  a  racket !  " 
Whereupon  she  deliberately  pulled  some  wool 
from  the  tassel  of  her  chinchilla  cloud,  and 
stuffed  a  little  wad  into  each  ear.  We  were 
sorry  for  the  overseer,  thus  put  to  shame  by  his 
untutored  charge,  and  delicately  looked  away, 
after  making  sure  Sally  had  "r'ared  as  high  "  as 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.      305 

she   proposed  doing.     She  was  the  overseer's 
cross ;  no  one  could  help  him  bear  it. 

And  now  the  curtain  went  up,  —  though  not 
on  the  play,  let  me  tell  you  !  On  slighter  joys, 
a  fillip  to  the  taste.  A  juggler,  "  all  complete  " 
in  black  small-clothes  and  white  kid  gloves, 
stood  there  ready  to  burn  up  our  handker 
chiefs,  change  our  watches  into  rabbits,  and 
make  omelets  in  our  best  go-to-meeting  hats. 
I  cannot  remember  all  the  wonderful  things  he 
did  (everything,  I  believe,  judging  from  the 
roseate  glow  left  in  my  mind,  everything  that 
juggler  ever  achieved  short  of  the  Hindoo  mar 
vel  of  cutting  up  maidens  and  splicing  them 
together  again,  or  planting  the  magic  tree)  ;  I 
only  know  we  were  too  crafty  to  help  him, 
and  though  he  again  and  again  implored  a  vol 
unteer  from  the  audience  to  come  and  play  the 
willing  victim,  we  clung  to  our  settees  the  more, 
so  that  Gad  of  the  piano  was  obliged  to  fill  the 
gap.  And  when  the  curtain  came  down,  and 
went  up  again  on  a  drawing-room,  with  a  red 
plush  chair  in  it,  and  a  lady  dressed  in  a  long- 
tailed  white  satin  gown,  where  were  we?  In 
Tiverton?  Nay,  in  the  great  world  of  fashion 
and  of  crime.  I  remember  very  little  now 
about  the  order  of  the  plays  ;  very  little  of  their 
names  and  drift.  I  only  know  we  were  swept 
triumphantly  through  the  widest  range  ever 
imagined  since  the  "  pastoral-comical,  historical- 

20 


306  MEADOW-GRASS. 

pastoral,"  of  old  Polonius.  And  in  all,  fat, 
middle-aged  Wilde  was  the  dashing  hero,  the 
deep-dyed  villain ;  and  his  wife,  middle-aged 
as  he,  and  far,  oh,  far  more  corpulent !  played 
the  lovely  heroine,  the  blooming  victim,  the 
queen  of  hearts.  And  she  was  truly  beautiful 
to  us,  that  blowsy  dame,  through  the  beguiling 
witchery  of  her  art.  The  smarting  tears  came 
into  our  eyes  when,  in  "  Caste,"  she  staggered 
back,  despairing,  lost  in  grief,  unable  to  arm 
her  soldier  for  the  march.  Melodrama  was  her 
joy,  and  as  we  watched  her  lumbering  about  the 
stage  in  a  white  muslin  dress,  with  the  artificial 
springiness  of  a  youth  that  would  never  return, 
we  could  have  risen  as  one  man,  to  snatch  her 
from  the  toils  of  villany.  She  was  a  cool  piece, 
that  swiftly  descending  star  !  She  had  a  way 
of  deliberately  stepping  outside  the  scenes  and 
letting  down  her  thin  black  hair,  before  the 
tragic  moment ;  then  would  she  bound  back 
again,  and  tear  every  passion  to  tatters,  in  good 
old-fashioned  style.  In  "  The  Octoroon  "  espe 
cially  she  tore  our  hearts  with  it,  so  that  it 
almost  began  to  seem  as  if  political  issues  were 
imminent.  For  between  the  acts,  men  bent 
forward  to  their  neighbors,  and  put  their  heads 
together,  recalling  abolition  times ;  and  one 
poor,  harmless  old  farmer  from  Sudleigh  way 
was  glared  at  in  a  fashion  to  which  he  had  once 
been  painfully  accustomed,  while  murmurs  of 


STROLLERS   IN    TIVERTON.       307 

"  Copperhead  !  Yes,  Copperhead  all  through 
the  war  !  "  must  have  penetrated  where  he  sat. 
But  he  was  securely  locked  up  in  his  fortress 
of  deaf  old  age,  and  met  the  hostile  glances 
benignly,  quite  unconscious  of  their  meaning. 
In  one  particular,  we  felt,  for  a  time,  that  we 
had  been  deceived.  The  Shakespearean  drama 
had  not  been  touched  on  as  we  had  been  led  to 
expect ;  but  at  last,  in  the  middle  of  the  second 
week,  we  were  rejoiced  by  the  announcement 
that  "  Othello "  would  that  night  be  appro 
priately  set  forth.  The  Moor  of  Venice  !  He 
would  never  have  recognized  himself —  his  great 
creator  would  never  have  guessed  his  identity  — 
as  presented  by  Mr.  Van  Rensellaer  Wilde.  I 
give  you  my  word  for  that !  From  beginning 
to  end  of  the  performance,  Tiverton  groped 
about,  in  a  haze  of  perplexity,  rendered  ever 
the  more  dense  by  the  fact  that  none  of  the 
actors  knew  their  parts.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
they  had  enriched  their  announcement  by  this 
allusion  to  the  Shakespearean  drama  in  a  mo 
ment  of  wild  ambition,  as  we  gladly  commit 
ourselves  to  issues  far-off  and  vague  ;  and  then, 
with  a  chivalrous  determination  to  vindicate 
their  written  word,  they  had  embarked  on  a 
troublous  sea  for  which  they  had  "  neither  mast 
nor  sail,  nor  chart  nor  rudder."  So  they  went 
bobbing  about  in  a  tub,  and  we,  with  a  like 
paucity  of  equipment,  essayed  to  follow  them. 


3o8  MEADOW-GRASS. 

Othello  himself  was  a  veiled  mystery  in  our 
eyes. 

"  Ain't  he  colored?"  whispered  Mrs.  Wilson 
to  me  ;  and  while  I  hesitated,  seeking  to  frame 
an  answer  both  terse  and  true,  she  continued, 
although  he  was  at  that  moment  impressing  the 
Senate  with  his  great  apology,  "Is  he  free?  " 

I  assured  her  on  that  point,  and  she  settled 
down  to  a  troubled  study  of  the  part,  only  to 
run  hopelessly  aground  when  Desdemona,  in  her 
stiff  white  satin  gown,  announced  her  intention 
of  cleaving  to  the  robust  blackamoor,  in  spite  of 
fate  and  father.  That  seemed  a  praiseworthy 
action,  "taken  by  and  large,"  but  we  could  not 
altogether  applaud  it.  "Abolition,"  as  we  were, 
the  deed  wounded  some  race  prejudice  in  us, 
and  Mrs.  Hiram  Cole  voiced  the  general  sen 
timent  when  she  remarked  audibly,  — 

"  One  color  's  as  good  as  another,  come  Judg 
ment  Day,  but  let  'em  marry  among  themselves, 
/say!" 

The  poverty  of  the  scenery  had  something  to 
do  with  our  dulness  in  following  the  dramatic 
thread,  for  how  should  we  know  that  our  own 
little  stage,  disguised  by  a  slender  tree-growth, 
was  the  island  of  Cyprus,  and  that  Desdemona, 
tripping  through  a  doorway,  in  the  same  satin 
gown,  had  just  arrived  from  a  long  and  perilous 
voyage  ?  "  The  riches  of  the  ship  "  had  "  come 
on  shore,"  but  for  all  we  knew,  it  had  been  in 


STROLLERS   IN    TIVERTON.       309 

the  next  room,  taking  a  nap,  all  the  while.  In 
the  crucial  scene  between  Cassio  and  lago,  we 
got  the  impression  that  one  was  as  drunk  as 
the  other,  and  that  Cassio  acted  the  better 
man  of  the  two,  chiefly  because  of  his  grandilo 
quent  apostrophe  relative  to  the  thieving  of 
brains.  We  approved  of  that,  and  looked 
meaningly  round  at  old  Cap'n  Fuller,  who  was 
at  that  time  taking  more  hard  cider  than  we 
considered  good  for  him.  But  when  the  final 
catastrophe  came,  we,  having  missed  the  logical 
sequence,  were  totally  unprepared.  Mr.  Wilde, 
with  a  blackamoor  fury  irresistibly  funny  to  one 
who  has  seen  a  city  coal-man  cursing  another 
for  not  moving  on,  smothered  his  shrieking 
spouse  in  a  pillow  brought  over  for  that  purpose 
from  the  Blaisdells',  where  most  of  the  actors 
were  boarding.  We  were  not  inclined  to  en 
dure  this  quietly.  The  more  phlegmatic  among 
us  moved  uneasily  in  our  seats,  and  one  or  two 
men,  excitable  beyond  the  ordinary,  sprang  up, 
with  an  oath.  Mrs.  Wilson  dragged  her  hus 
band  down  again. 

"  For  massy  sake,  do  set  still  !  "  she  urged. 
"  He  'ain't  killed  her.  Don't  you  see  them  toes 
a-twitchin'  ?  " 

No,  Mrs.  Wilde  was  not  dead,  as  her  weary 
appearance  in  the  afterpiece  attested ;  but  she 
had  been  cruelly  abused,  and  the  murmurs, 
here  and  there,  as  we  left  the  hall,  went  far  to 


310  MEADOW-GRASS. 

show  that  Othello  had  done  well  in  voluntarily 
paying  the  debt  of  nature,  and  that  Emilia 
thought  none  too  ill  of  him. 

"  Ought  to  ha'  been  strung  up,  by  good 
rights,"  growled  Tiverton.  "You  can't  find  a 
jury 't  would  aquit  him!" 

Night  after  night,  we  conscientiously  sat  out 
the  aforesaid  afterpiece,  innocently  supposed 
to  be  our  due  because  it  had  formed  a  part  of 
the  initial  performance.  However  long  our 
weary  strollers  might  delay  it,  in  the  empty 
hope  of  our  going  home  content,  there  we 
waited  until  the  curtain  went  up.  It  was  a 
dreary  piece  of  business,  varied  by  horse-play 
considered  "  kind  o'  rough  "  by  even  the  more 
boisterous  among  us.  Sometimes  it  was  given, 
minstrel-wise,  in  the  time-honored  panoply  of 
burnt  cork ;  again,  poor  weary  souls !  they 
lacked  even  the  spirit  to  blacken  themselves, 
and  clinging  to  the  same  dialogue,  played  boldly 
in  Caucasian  fairness,  with  the  pathetically  futile 
disguise  of  a  Teuton  accent.  And  last  of  all, 
Mr.  Wilde  would  appear  before  the  curtain,  and 
"  in  behalf  of  Mrs.  Wilde,  self  and  company  " 
thank  us  movingly  for  our  kind  attention,  and 
announce  the  next  night's  bill. 

The  last  half  hour  was  my  chosen  time  for 
leaning  back  against  the  wall,  and  allowing 
thought  and  glance  to  dwell  lovingly  on  Tiverton 
faces.  O  worn  and  rugged  features  of  the 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.       311 

elder  generation  to  whose  kinship  we  are  born  ! 
What  solution,  even  of  Time,  the  all-potent, 
shall  wash  your  meaning  from  the  heart?  An 
absolute  lack  of  self-consciousness  had  quite 
transformed  the  gaze  they  bent  upon  the  stage. 
A  veil  had  been  swept  aside,  and  the  true  soul 
shone  forth ;  that  soul  which  ever  dwells  apart, 
either  from  the  dignity  of  its  estate  or,  being 
wrought  of  fibre  more  delicate  than  air,  be 
cause  it  fears  recoil  and  hurt.  There  were 
Roxy  and  her  husband,  he  too  well  content 
with  life  as  it  is,  to  be  greatly  moved  by  its 
counterfeit ;  she  sparkling  back  some  artless 
reply  to  the  challenge  of  feeble  romance  and 
wingless  wit.  There  was  Uncle  Eli,  a  little  dazed 
by  these  strange  doings,  the  hand  on  his  knee 
shaking,  from  time  to  time,  under  the  stimulus 
of  unshared  thought.  There  was  Miss  Lucindy, 
with  Ellen  and  all  the  McNeils,  a  care-free,  happy 
phalanx,  smiling  joyously  at  everything  set  before 
them,  with  that  spontaneous  rapture  so  good  to 
see.  One  night,  Nance  Pete  appeared,  and 
established  herself,  with  great  importance,  in 
the  first  row  of  the  ten-cent  seats ;  but  she  fell 
asleep,  and  snored  with  embarrassing  volume 
and  precision.  She  never  came  again,  and 
announced  indifferently,  to  all  who  cared  to 
hear,  that  when  she  "  wanted  to  see  a  passel  o' 
monkeys,  she  'd  go  to  the  circus,  an'  done  with 
it."  There,  too,  one  night  when  Comedy  bur- 


3 1 2  MEADOW-GRASS. 

lesqued  her  own  rapt  self,  was  Dana  Marden; 
but  he  came  alone.  Mary  had  a  cold,  we  heard, 
and  "  thought  she  'd  better  stay  in."  Dana 
sat  through  the  foolish  play,  unmoved.  His 
brow  loomed  heavy,  like  Tragedy's  own  mask, 
and  it  grew  ever  blacker  while  the  scene  went 
on.  Hiram  Cole  whispered  me,  — 

"  He  '11  kill  himself  afore  he  's  done  with  it. 
He  's  gone  in  for  the  whole  hog,  but  he  'ain't 
growed  to  it,  as  Old  Josh  had.  The  Marden 
blood  run  emptin's  afore  it  got  to  him." 

The  last  night  came  of  all  our  blissful  inter 
lude,  and  on  that  night,  by  some  stroke  of  fate, 
the  bill  was  "  Oliver  Twist."  Of  that  perform 
ance  let  naught  be  spoken,  save  in  reverence. 
For,  by  divine  leading  it  might  seem,  and  not 
their  own  good  wit,  those  poor  players  had 
been  briefly  touched  by  the  one  true  fire. 
Shakespeare  had  beckoned  them,  and  they 
had  passed  him  by;  Comedy  and  Tragedy 
had  been  their  innocent  sport.  How  funny 
their  tragedy  had  been,  how  sad  their  comedy, 
Momus  only  might  tell.  But  to-night  some 
gleaming  wave  from  a  greater  sea  had  lifted 
them,  and  borne  them  on.  Still  they  played 
jarringly,  for  that  was  their  untutored  wont. 
Their  speech  roared  loud  defiance  to  gram 
mar's  idle  saws,  their  costumes  were  absurd 
remnants  of  an  antique  past ;  but  a  certain 
rude  and  homely  dignity  had  transfigured  them, 


STROLLERS   IN   TIVERTON.       313 

and  enveloped,  too,  this  poor  drama  which, 
after  all,  goes  very  deep,  down  to  the  springs 
of  life  and  love.  There  was  a  dirty  and  wicked 
abomination  of  a  Fagin.  Wilde  himself  played 
Sykes,  and  we  of  Tiverton,  who  know  little 
about  the  formless  monster  dwelling  under  the 
garnished  pavement  of  every  great  city,  and 
rising,  once  in  a  century  or  so,  to  send  red  riot 
and  ruin  through  the  streets,  —  even  we  could 
read  the  story  of  his  word  and  glance.  Uncon 
sciously  to  ourselves,  we  guessed  at  Whitechapel 
and  the  East  End  "  tough,"  and  shuddered 
under  the  knowledge  of  evil.  Mrs.  Wilde,  her 
heavy  face  many  a  shade  sincerer  than  when 
she  walked  in  dirty  white  satin,  was  Nancy ; 
and  in  her  death,  culminated  the  grand  moment 
of  Tiverton's  looking  the  drama  in  the  face, 
and  seeing  it  for  what  it  is,  —  the  living  sister 
of  life  itself.  Sykes  really  killed  her  alarmingly 
well.  Round  the  stage  he  dragged  her,  bruised 
and  speechless,  with  such  cruel  realism  that  we 
women  crouched  and  shivered ;  and  when  she 
staggered  to  her  knees,  and  told  her  pitiful  lie 
for  the  brute  she  loved,  the  general  shudder  of 
worship  and  horror  thrilled  us  into  a  mighty 
reverence  for  the  tie  stronger  than  death  and 
hell,  binding  the  woman  to  the  man,  and  lifting 
Love  triumphant  on  his  cross  of  pain.  With 
Nancy's  final  sigh,  another  swept  through  the 
hall,  like  breath  among  the  trees,  and,  drawn 


314  MEADOW-GRASS. 

by  what  thread  I  know  not,  I  looked  about 
me,  and  all  unwittingly  was  present  at  another 
great  last  act.  Dana  Harden  and  his  wife 
were  in  front  of  me,  not  three  seats  away. 
Mary  was  very  pale,  and  sat  quite  motionless, 
looking  down  into  her  lap ;  but  Dana  bent 
forward,  gripping  the  seat  in  front  of  him  with 
white  and  straining  hands.  His  face,  drawn 
and  knotted,  was  a  mirror  of  such  anguish  as 
few  of  us  imagine  ;  we  only  learn  its  power 
when  it  steals  upon  us  in  the  dark,  and  our 
souls  wrestle  with  it  for  awful  mastery.  He 
seemed  to  be  suffering  an  extremity  of  physical 
pain.  After  that,  I  gave  little  heed  to  the  stage. 
I  was  only  conscious  that  the  curtain  had 
gone  down,  and  that  Mr.  Wilde  was  thanking  us 
for  our  kind  attention,  and  expressing  a  flatter 
ing  hope  that  another  year  would  find  him 
again  in  our  midst.  We  did  not  want  the 
farce,  that  night,  even  as  our  rightful  due.  We 
got  up,  and  filed  out  in  silence.  I  was  just 
behind  Dana  and  Mary ;  so  near  that  I  could 
have  touched  him  when,  half-way  down  the 
hall,  he  put  out  a  clumsy  hand  and  drew  her 
shawl  closer  about  her  shoulders.  Then  he  set 
his  face  straight  forward  again,  but  not  before  I 
had  noticed  how  the  lips  were  twitching  still, 
in  that  dumb  protest  against  the  fetters  of  his 
birth.  Again  he  turned  to  her,  as  suddenly  as 
if  a  blow  had  forced  his  face  about.  I  heard 


STROLLERS   IN    TIVERTON.      315 

his  voice,  abrupt,  explosive,  full  of  the  harshness 
so  near  at  hand  to  wait  on  agony,  — 

"  You  got  your  rubbers  on  ?  " 

Mary  started  a  little,  and  a  tremor  like  that 
of  cold,  went  over  her ;  but  she  kept  her  head 
firmly  erect. 

"  Yes,  Dana,"  she  said,  clearly,  just  as  she 
had  spoken  to  him  all  those  months,  "  I  've  got 
'em  on." 

Before  eleven  o'clock,  the  next  morning,  the 
news  had  spread  all  over  joyful  Tiverton.  Dana 
had  spoken  at  last !  But  Mary  !  Within  a  week, 
she  took  to  her  bed,  quite  overmastered  by  a 
fingering  fever.  She  "came  out  all  right,"  as 
we  say  among  ourselves,  though  after  Dana  had 
suffered  such  agonies  of  tenderness  over  her  as 
few  save  mothers  can  know,  or  those  who  have 
injured  their  beloved.  But  she  has  never  since 
been  quite  so  dauntless,  quite  so  full  of  the  joy 
of  life.  As  Hiram  Cole  again  remarked,  it  is  a 
serious  thing  to  draw  too  heavily  on  the  nerve- 
juice. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


fEBUBRARY  LOANS 

JUN  1  3  1991 


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